}•! o>4 1 » { H I  >  •  i  f  M  • .  .      .        '-..•.:•>, 


MISS  FINGAL 


MISS  FINGAL 


BY 

MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 


"For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take, 
For  soul  is  form  and  doth  the  body  make." 

—SPENSER. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1919 


COPVKIGHT, 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SO* 

Published  May, 
Reprinted  July, 
Reprinted  My, 


MISS  FINGAL 


2134723 


MISS   FINGAL. 


PART  I. 


IN  1905,  when  she  was  not  yet  twenty-one,  Miss  Fingal 
went  to  live  alone  at  Battersea,  high  up  in  a  little  flat 
overlooking  the  park:  she  stayed  there  eight  years.  The 
flat,  like  those  adjoining  it,  contained  a  sitting-room 
with  a  balcony,  a  bedroom,  a  bathroom,  and  a  kitchen. 
That  was  all.  The  tenants  were  not  supposed  to  be 
rich  enough  to  keep  a  servant;  Mrs.  Bailey,  fifty  and 
well-fed  looking,  with  a  grey  shawl  pinned  across  her 
shoulders  and  a  red  flower  in  her  black  bonnet,  came 
every  morning  to  do  the  necessary  cleaning  and  to  cook 
the  modest  meal  that  Miss  Fingal  called  her  luncheon; 
dinner  was  a  rite  often  forgotten  and  never  worth  con- 
sidering. She  had  no  belongings  except  an  elderly  uncle 
John,  a  bachelor,  who  lived  in  Bedford  Square;  but  she 
seldom  went  to  his  house.  Once  a  year,  at  Christmas, 
he  sent  her  a  ten-pound  note  (possibly  he  thought  she 
might  have  some  difficulty  in  cashing  a  cheque)  in  a 
registered  envelope,  with  "Best  wishes"  written  on  half 
a  sheet  of  note-paper.  Once  a  year,  in  June  usually,  he 
sent  her  his  Royal  Academy  catalogue — she  had  asked 
him  for  it  one  day,  explaining  that  it  would  save  her  a 
shilling.  At  other  times  he  appeared  to  forget  her  ex- 
istence; but  this  was  not  surprising,  for  she  was  a  sort 
of  human  excrescence  that  had  been  almost  rubbed  out 


2  Miss  Fingal 

on  the  face  of  time.  No  one  remembered  her  or  knew 
her  or  cared  about  her,  or  did  anything  for  her  except 
on  the  ten-pound  note  day  at  Christmas,  and  the 
Academy  catalogue  day  at  midsummer.  Even  Mrs. 
Bailey  took  little  heed  of  her,  though  she  was  paid 
five  shillings  a  week  for  her  services,  and  now  and 
then  given  a  pair  of  worn-out  shoes  or  an  old  garment, 
which  she  carried  away,  obviously  thinking,  "They're 
not  good  for  much,"  and  with  a  manner  that  suggested 
she  would  forget  how  she  had  come  by  them  before  she 
reached  home. 

Miss  Fingal  had  been  eight  years  in  the  flat  and  was 
nearly  twenty-nine — she  might  have  been  any  age,  older 
or  younger.  She  was  slim  and  very  calm  of  manner. 
She  had  a  quantity  of  brown  hair  coiled  close  to  her 
head,  grey  eyes,  soft  and  kind,  but  vague  and  dark-lashed, 
which  gave  them  a  curious  air  of  safeguarding  her 
thoughts  and  making  her  seem  a  little  remote.  Her 
low  even  voice,  pitched  in  a  sweet  and  usually  treble 
key,  added  to  the  effect  of  remoteness;  it  seemed  to 
be  all  that  was  left  of  some  insistent  sound  that  had 
struggled  through  the  bygones  and,  fatigued  with  long 
effort,  to  have  little  strength  left  for  its  owner's  use. 

Eight  years  in  the  flat  It  seemed  as  if  she  might  be 
there  eight  more,  and  eight  more  again,  for  all  that  was 
likely  to  happen.  But  she  faced  the  prospect,  if  she 
thought  about  it  at  all,  without  alarm:  time  was  a 
monotonous  stream,  and  she  went  on  with  it  patiently, 
expecting  nothing. 

And  just  as  she  looked  forward  to  nothing,  so,  too, 
there  was  no  background  to  her  life;  she  had  no 
memories  over  which  she  cared  to  linger.  Her  mother 
had  died  when  she  was  a  child;  her  father,  a  soldier  on 
half  pay,  had  sent  her  to  a  dull  school  at  Worthing  till 
she  was  grown  up.  Then  she  lived  in  lodgings  for  two 
years  with  him,  but  they  had  not  been  intimate;  he  was 
a  morose  man  who  resented  not  being  better  off,  and 
spent  most  of  his  time  at  his  club.  When  he  died,  she 
thought  that  death  demanded  tears  and  a  period  of 
mourning:  she  paid  its  toll.  A  month  later  she  settled 
down  in  the  little  flat  at  Battersea. 


Miss  Fingal  3 

She  gathered  in  silence  and  shyness  to  her  heart,  and 
the  lack  of  keen  interests  told  upon  her.  This,  too,  had 
its  effect,  and  it  was  as  if  a  mental  haze  drew  softly 
round  her.  Now  and  then  she  made  half-hearted  at- 
tempts to  shake  it  off,  to  overtake  the  world  behind  which 
she  was  consciously  lagging,  to  understand  it  better,  to 
grasp  its  interests;  she  even  thought  about  its  pleasures, 
but  after  one  or  two  futile  attempts  to  gain  new  experi- 
ences she  drew  back  gratefully  into  the  restful  uneventful 
days  that  were  her  portion.  She  belonged  to  the  unfortu- 
nate lower  rank  of  the  upper  class,  and  its  lingering 
prejudices  prevented  her  from  trying  to  augment  her 
income — which  was  small  enough  to  escape  taxation — 
by  any  of  the  methods  that  have  occurred  to  women  in 
recent  days,  so  that  she  had  none  of  the  excitements  and 
adventures  of  those  who  earn.  Sometimes  she  had  an 
idea  that  she  ought  to  be  useful  in  charitable  work;  but 
she  was  afraid  to  thrust  herself  among  the  people  con- 
cerned in  it,  though  she  did  many  acts  of  kindness  in  a 
foolish  inconsequent  manner — such  as  giving  sixpences 
to  beggars  who  were  obviously  impostors,  or  sending 
anonymous  postal  orders  of  a  shilling  to  cases  that 
seemed  deserving.  One  winter  she  had  been  intermit- 
tently grieved  but  interested  while  Mrs.  Bailey's  daughter 
was  dying  of  consumption:  she  went  to  her  door  every 
week,  carrying  little  gifts  that  she  thought  might  be 
nourishing.  When  the  end  came  she  sent  a  wreath — a 
very  small  one,  the  large  ones  were  too  expensive — and 
she  gave  the  charing  mother  a  black  dress  that  was  only 
half  worn  out. 

Life  hung  on  her  hands  a  good  deal  for  a  week  or  two 
after  Lily  Bailey  died.  There  was  a  dearth  of  things  to  do 
in  the  long  quiet  days ;  she  had  no  piano,  the  hire  of  one 
was  more  than  she  could  afford,  besides,  she  had  never 
played  well.  She  disliked  needlework.  She  read  a  few 
novels  borrowed  from  a  near-by  circulating  library;  they 
were  seldom  new  and  she  chose  them  for  their  quantity, 
small  print  and  plenty  of  it ;  then  a  volume  lasted  a  whole 
week,  for  she  was  never  sufficiently  eager  to  scurry 
through  or  to  look  at  the  end.  Outside  amusements 
were  unknown  to  her;  cheap  places  repelled  her  by 


4  Miss  Fingal 

the  crowds  attracted  to  them,  and  from  the  more  expen- 
sive ones  she  was  cut  off  by  the  usual  reason.  Every 
June,  late  in  the  month,  she  took  herself  to  the  Academy 
with  uncle  John's  catalogue;  once  or  twice  during  the 
winter  she  went  to  an  afternoon  concert — at  the  Albert 
Hall  usually,  for  there  were  shilling  places  in  the  top 
gallery  and  she  could  sit  with  a  sense  of  being  peace- 
fully hidden. 

In  the  daylight  months,  at  the  after-tea  time,  she 
would  often  stand  on  the  balcony  with  her  head  raised 
and  her  back  against  the  brick  wall  of  the  building,  so 
that  her  gaze,  escaping  the  roadway  beneath,  was  filled 
with  the  green  distances  of  the  park  beyond.  She  liked 
to  watch  the  groups  of  children,  the  couples  walking 
arm  in  arm  or  resting  on  the  seats,  the  solitary  figure 
growing  smaller  and  indistinct  in  the  farther  back- 
ground, that  seemed  to  have  some  definite  goal  of  a  sort 
that  was  never  hers,  or  to  imagine  the  little  boats  on 
the  lake  hidden  from  her  view  on  the  left,  or  to  listen  to 
the  band  that  was  so  far  off  she  only  heard  it  faintly. 
She  never  entered  the  park  herself,  she  lacked  courage; 
it  was  strange  that  it  should  be  so,  seeing  that  its  gates 
were  only  across  the  way.  Sometimes  when  she  had 
left  the  block  of  which  her  flat  was  a  part  she  hesitated, 
but  her  feet  seemed  to  be  reluctant,  and  mentally  she 
shook  her  head ;  she  did  not  belong  to  the  green  spaces 
of  life,  to  the  pleasures  and  happy  wanderings  in  the 
open,  so  she  turned  and  went  her  way  towards  the  ugly 
road  with  the  shops  or  across  the  bridge  to  Chelsea. 
She  liked  best  of  all  the  old  houses  of  Cheyne  Walk: 
they  put  her  into  an  atmosphere  in  which  she  was  recog- 
nised and  comforted;  in  some  strange  way  they  made 
her  feel  young,  and  provoked  a  little  wondering  smile 
from  her  when  she  looked  up  at  them,  as  if  she  felt  that 
the  secret  of  her  future  was  in  their  keeping  though  she 
had  no  expectancy  from  it.  But  all  this  was  vague  and 
dreamlike  as  Miss  Fingal's  life  was,  though  gradually 
there  came  to  her  a  sense  of  waiting,  of  which  she  was 
hardly  aware  till  the  day  came  when  everything  was 
changed. 


II. 


ONE  morning  there  was  a  letter.  She  fetched  it  hurriedly, 
it  was  a  pleasant  surprise,  for  no  one  ever  wrote  to  her 
except  uncle  John.  This  was  evidently  not  from  him. 
The  envelope  was  larger  than  he  used,  the  handwriting 
different,  and  her  two  first  names,  Aline  Mary,  were  set 
out.  She  had  almost  forgotten  them;  no  one  called  her 
by  them  or  knew  them  except  uncle  John,  who  had 
seemed  to  avoid  uttering  them.  He  generally  greeted 
her  with  "Oh,  well,  how  do  you  do?"  and  addressed 
his  letters  simply  to  Miss  Fingal.  The  two  notes  of 
thanks  she  wrote  him  in  the  year  and  the  dividend 
receipts  for  her  modest  income  had  been  sufficiently 
signed  with  initials:  to  the  few  people  who  were  aware 
of  her  existence  at  Battersea  she  was  just  Miss  Fingal, 
and  the  Aline  Mary  an  unknown  quantity.  She  stood 
staring  at  it  now.  There  was  a  black  seal  with  the 
initials  "B.  G.  &  G."  A  perplexed  curiosity  took  hold 
of  her,  a  little  superstitious  spasm  that  was  arrested  by 
the  vehemence  in  the  kettle  over  the  spirit-lamp,  for 
when  the  postman  rattled  her  letter-box  she  had  been 
about  to  make  some  tea  for  her  frugal  breakfast.  "I 
hope  it  isn't  a  death,"  she  said  to  herself  in  her  rather 
foolish  way.  She  poured  the  boiling  water  into  the  pot 
and  protected  it  by  a  dinner  napkin  placed  over  the  lid 
and  spout;  then  she  allowed  herself  to  open  the  en- 
velope, leaving  the  seal  intact,  feeling  as  she  pulled  out 
the  thick  sheet  of  note-paper  that  something  had  hap- 
pened, or  was  going  to  happen,  that  would  fill  out  her 
day.  She  read  the  short  letter  twice  and  took  it  in 
slowly. 
A  firm  of  solicitors — Bendish,  Grant,  &  Gregory — 


6  Miss  Fingal 

informed  her  with  much  regret  that  their  esteemed 
client,  Mr.  John  Fingal,  had  died  the  day  before,  and 
that,  as  she  was  the  only  relation  mentioned  in  his  will, 
they  would  be  glad  if  she  could  make  it  convenient  to 
call  that  morning  in  Bedford  Square.  She  was  startled, 
for  she  had  not  been  to  uncle  John's  house  a  dozen 
times  in  her  life,  and  never  for  more  than  half  an  hour. 
He  had  made  her  clearly  understand  that,  though  he 
recognised  the  relationship  between  them,  he  had  occu- 
pations that  satisfied  him  and  visitors  were  not  desired. 
To  go  now,  when  he  would  not  be  there  to  look  up  at 
her  from  the  revolving  chair  by  the  writing-table  as  she 
entered,  or  down  on  her  by  the  doorway  as  she  departed 
— she  remembered  still  with  a  little  shiver  his  cold 
critical  eyes  and  well-brushed  hair — seemed  like  taking 
advantage  of  the  fact  with  which  she  had  just  been  made 
acquainted.  Yet,  though  she  was  unaware  of  it,  some- 
where hidden  away  in  her  there  was  a  sporting  instinct 
that  made  her  want  to  see  what  would  come  of  it. 

The  meaning  of  the  words  signifying  that  she  had 
an  interest  in  the  will  did  not  agitate  or  even  surprise 
her.  It  probably  meant  that  he  had  left  her  some  little 
compensation  for  the  loss  of  the  yearly  ten  pounds;  it 
would  show  that  he  was  very  thoughtful,  she  told  her- 
self;  but  to  speculate  on  his  having  done  more  than  this 
did  not  occur  to  her.  She  tried  to  be  sorry  for  him,  and 
only  succeeded  in  being  grave  and  pitching  her  surprise 
in  a  minor  key;  but  it  was  curious  that  suddenly  she 
should  feel  lonely.  She  had  been  lonely  before,  but  his 
death  made  her  realise  it.  There  would  be  no  more  ten- 
pound  note  days  with  "Best  wishes"  in  the  winter,  or 
Royal  Academy  catalogue  days  in  the  summer.  They 
had  made  a  break  in  her  life.  She  had  looked  forward 
to  them,  and  back  at  them  .  .  .  the  room  felt  very  still. 

She  heard  Mrs.  Bailey  let  herself  in.  It  was  a  relief, 
and  showed  that  yesterday  reached  into  to-day  and  that 
other  things  had  not  stopped,  though  uncle  John  had 
died.  It  was  so  strange  that  he  should  be  dead.  She 
tried  to  make  the  fact  vivid  to  herself,  for  as  yet  it  was 
only  a  statement  in  a  letter.  She  listened.  Mrs.  Bailey 
went  into  the  kitchen ;  she  was  taking  off  the  little  shawl 


Miss  Fingal  7 

thrown  over  her  shoulders  and  the  black  bonnet  with  the 
red  flower  in  it. 

She  opened  the  sitting-room  door. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  miss?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  Miss  Fingal  answered  in  a  grateful 
tone,  just  as  usual.  Then,  feeling  that  the  event  must 
be  put  into  spoken  words,  she  added,  "but  I've  had  a 
letter" — Mrs.  Bailey  advanced  a  step — "my  uncle  is 
dead." 

"Well  now!  It  must  have  been  sudden  or  he  would 
have  told  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  it  was  sudden,  I  suppose.  I'm  very  sorry  for 
him.  I  never  thought  of  his  doing  that." 

"We've  all  got  to  come  to  it,  high  and  low,  rich  and 
poor."  Mrs.  Bailey  waited  a  moment:  "I  hope  he's 
thought  of  you,  miss?" 

Miss  Fingal  slowly  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea.  Mrs. 
Bailey  waited  another  moment,  then  put  a  direct  ques- 
tion in  a  tone  that  necessiated  a  clear  answer — "I  hope 
he  has  done  well  by  you,  miss?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  has  done  yet." 

"Of  course  you  wasn't  with  him  much.  But  I've 
known  cases  where  it  didn't  make  any  difference." 

"I  don't  know  what  he  has  done,"  Miss  Fingal  re- 
peated, feeling  a  little  helpless  under  Mrs.  Bailey's 
cross-examination,  "but  the  lawyers  have  asked  me  to 
go  to  the  house  because  I  am  the  only  relation  men- 
tioned in  the  will."  It  was  said  without  curiosity  or 
exultation. 

But  Mrs.  Bailey  was  elated.  "Well,  I  never!"  she 
exclaimed;  "depend  upon  it  you'll  be  well  off  for  the 
rest  of  your  days.  I  said  to  my  poor  Lily  once,  'I 
should  never  be  surprised  if  something  good  didn't  come 
to  Miss  Fingal.  You  see,  it's  easy  to  tell  she's  a  lady' ; 
and  you  never  know  when  gentlefolks  will  come  by  their 
own,  no  matter  how  careful  they  have  to  be  beforehand, 
for  they  generally  have  well-off  relations  somewhere 
who  may  die  and,  of  course,  can't  take  what  they  have 
with  them." 

"Oh  no,  they  can't  do  that." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  have  come  into  a  fortune, 


8  Miss  Fingal 

and  will  have  to  leave  us.  I  feel  sure  you'd  be  kind  to 
those  about  you  and  those  you've  known" — Mrs.  Bailey 
looked  round  in  a  comprehensive  way  that  made  Miss 
Fingal  feel  she  had  been  a  part  of  a  whole,  a  something 
she  had  not  realised  but  would  be  sorry  to  leave. 
"When  will  you  know  more,  miss?  Are  you  going  to 
the  house  to-day?" 

"Oh  yes,  the  letter  asks  me  to  go  this  morning." 

"About  twelve,  I  should  say?  That's  the  time  when 
gentlemen  are  usually  ready  for  business — or  a  little 
earlier.  I  think  if  I  were  you,  miss,  I'd  make  it  half- 
past  eleven,  then  they  won't  be  hurried  for  thinking  of 
their  lunch." 

The  advised  one  meekly  assented. 

"What  will  you  wear  now?  I  don't  think  you've  any- 
thing black  by  you?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter."  Miss  Fingal  shook  her  head 
at  the  tiresomeness  of  the  question. 

"It  would  look  better  anyway  to  go  in  something  dark. 
Your  navy  blue  would  do  very  well  for  before  the  funeral. 
I  dare  say  you  can  get  your  proper  mourning  made  in 
time  for  that."  Mrs.  Bailey's  animation  increased  with 
each  fresh  idea  that  occurred  to  her.  "And  if  you  should 
want  to  let  the  flat,  miss,  why,  a  young  couple  spoke  to 
me  only  two  days  ago  and  asked  me  if  I  knew  of  a  top  one 
likely  to  be  had." 


III. 


THE  blinds  of  the  house  in  Bedford  Square — they  were 
holland,  of  a  dingy  yellow  tint — were  drawn  down,  and 
seemed  to  cling  close  to  the  windows.  She  was  sensible 
of  the  gloom  within  before  she  entered,  and  dismayed  at 
the  loudness  of  the  knock  she  could  not  control.  Stimson, 
the  sedate  and  middle-aged  man-servant,  answered  it. 
For  a  moment  he  looked  at  the  slim  figure  and  pale  face 
with  hesitation,  then  quickly  opened  the  door  a  little 
wider  and  stood  aside;  the  deferential  set-back  of  his 
shoulders  showed  that  he  recognised  the  importance  of 
the  arrival. 

"Oh  yes,  Miss  Fingal,"  he  said  in  a  depressed  voice, 
"Mr.  Bendish  and  Sir  James  are  waiting  for  you  in  the 
library." 

She  crossed  the  threshold  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief  at 
having  got  thus  far  on  her  adventure  and  followed  him 
to  the  only  room  she  had  ever  entered.  It  was  lined 
with  heavy  books  of  which  the  bindings  suggested  that 
they  had  not  been  used  for  years ;  in  front  of  the  shelves 
facing  the  fireplace,  a  glazed  map,  yellow  with  age, 
stretched  down  from  its  roller;  near  the  window  was 
a  large  writing-table  with  a  heavy  bronze  inkstand,  and 
beside  it  the  chair  from  which  uncle  John  had  looked 
up  at  her.  A  tall  thin  man  rose  from  it  now,  elderly 
and  grey,  with  keen  eyes  and  beetling  brows.  He 
pushed  aside  some  papers  he  had  been  examining  and 
went  towards  her. 

"Ah,  Miss  Fingal?  I  was  rather  afraid,  as  you  had 
not  telegraphed,  that  you  might  be  away."  He  held 
her  hand  for  a  moment  and  mentally  described  her  as 
"rather  plain,  but  not  without  a  soft  dignity  of  manner." 


io  Miss  Fingal 

Standing  by  the  fireplace  was  another  man,  fair  and 
almost  ruddy,  of  rather  heavy  build,  but  alert  and  quick 
of  speech.  He  was  nearing  sixty,  but  he  seemed  to 
take  on,  or  to  toss  his  years  away  from  him,  as  might  be 
his  humour;  a  little  preoccupied  in  manner,  as  if  he 
were  cheerfully  but  keenly  considering  some  more  im- 
portant matter  than  the  one  immediately  before  him. 
He  wore  a  frock-coat  that  gave  him  a  business-like 
appearance;  he  might  have  been  a  prosperous  trades- 
man or  a  valued  shopwalker. 

"This  is  Sir  James  Gilston,"  Mr.  Bendish  explained, 
"a  neighbour  of  your  uncle's  at  Wavercombe."  She 
had  never  heard  of  Wavercombe.  "I  asked  him  to  come 
and  meet  you,  for  he  and  I  are  joint-executors." 

"I  am  afraid  I  must  go  in  a  few  minutes — we  had  al- 
most given  you  up,"  the  neighbour  said. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  answered.  "Of  course  I  ought  to 
have  telegraphed.  I  didn't  think  of  it."  They  noticed 
her  articulation,  low  and  clear  and  refined." 

"Of  course  not.    Let  me  give  you  this  chair." 

She  sat  down  opposite  them.  Sir  James  looked  at 
the  calm  face,-  and  appeared  to  draw  some  definite  con- 
clusion, for  he  said  "Humph!"  in  an  undertone  and 
stroked  his  nose.  Then,  as  if  he  felt  that  he  ought  to 
make  a  remark,  he  said  jocosely,  "We  don't  expect  your 
sex  to  be  business-like ;  I  prefer  it  myself  when  it  is  not." 
The  voice  was  kind,  but  the  manner  was  common:  it 
didn't  matter,  he  was  just  one  of  the  new  people  she  was 
out  to  meet. 

Mr.  Bendish  looked  different,  clever  and  thoughtful, 
perhaps  because,  being  the  senior  partner  of  the  firm,  he 
had  arrived  at  the  time  when  he  had  a  certain  amount 
of  leisure  to  give  to  the  intellectual  diversions  of  life. 

"I  dare  say  you  were  grieved  to  hear  of  your  uncle's 
death,"  he  began;  "it  was  sudden — " 

"Very  sudden  indeed,"  Sir  James  said  briskly. 

" — And  not  much  surprised  at  the  rest  of  my  letter — 
I  mean  with  regard  to  his  will?"  Mr.  Bendish  went  on. 

"Oh  yes,  I  was  very  much  surprised.  It  is  very  kind 
of  him — but  I  don't  know  yet  what  it  means." 

"The   will   has   not   been    opened,"    Mr.    Betldjsh   foe- 


Miss  Fingal  n 

came  professional  in  his  manner,  "but  naturally  its 
substance  is  known  to  us.  We  acted  for  him  for  a  great 
many  years.  I  never  imagined  he  would  go  off  so 
quickly.  He  was  quite  well  three  days  ago " 

"I  was  never  more  suprised  in  my  life,"  put  in  Sir 
James.  "Only  ten  days  ago  I  saw  him  superintending 
the  putting  up  of  some  barbed  wire  at  the  end  of  his 
orchard  at  Wavercombe.  He  told  me  the  boys  got  in 
to  steal  his  apples  and  he  thought  it  would  tease  them 
a  bit.  I  never  put  any  up  at  my  place,  though  it  is  fifty 
times  the  size  of  his.  I  let  the  little  devils  steal  an  apple 
or  two  if  they  like." 

"It's  very  sad — and  so  kind  of  you  not  to  mind  about 
the  boys,"  Miss  Fingal  said,  answering  both  ends  of  his 
remark. 

Mr.  Bendish  took  another  swift  look  at  her  and 
wondered  if  she  were  a  fool  or  a  quiet  humorist.  The 
details  of  Mr.  Fingal's  will,  he  explained,  would  be  made 
known  in  the  usual  way  immediately  after  the  funeral, 
"but  it  would  be  better  to  tell  you  at  once  that,  virtually, 
everything  is  left  to  you,"  he  added. 

"He  never  seemed  to  like  me  much."  She  locked  her 
hands  as  if  to  ensure  her  calmness,  though  it  was  never 
in  danger. 

"Your  uncle  was  a  very  curious  man,"  the  lawyer 
explained,  "with  strong  opinions.  He  thought  it  was 
the  duty  of  every  man  at  his  death  to  make  some  con- 
tribution to  the  State  or  its  Institutions,  and  to  leave 
the  rest  of  his  property  to  the  family  he  represented. 
You  were  the  only  relation  he  had,  or  at  any  rate  with 
whom  he  kept  in  any  sort  of  touch,  and  the  property 
comes  to  you.  It  consists  of  the  long  lease  of  this  house, 
a  cottage  at  Wavercombe,  and  an  income  of  at  least 
£3000  a  year."  She  could  hardly  take  in  the  details 
of  her  good  fortune.  She  looked  up  with  wide-open 
eyes  and  an  absent  expression  in  them,  while  she  thought 
that  Mrs.  Bailey  was  probably  right;  she  would  have  to 
leave  the  flat.  "You  are  a  very  fortunate  young  lady," 
he  added,  surprised  at  her  placidity. 

"An  heiress — you  must  take  care,"  Sir  James  said 
with  a  chuckling  laugh;  but  he  stopped  when  he  saw 


12  Miss  Fingal 

her  face,  she  thought  it  was  too  soon  for  any  one  to 
laugh  in  that  house,  and  he  added  rather  lamely, 
"mustn't  be  too  dissipated,  you  know,  or  marry  in 
haste  and  repent  at  leisure." 

"Oh  no,  I  shan't  do  that,"  she  looked  at  him  re- 
proachfully. 

He  wondered,  as  the  lawyer  had  done,  whether  she 
was  a  fool  and  how  the  deuce  she  would  spend  her 
money.  She  ought  to  marry,  of  course:  that  would 
settle  her.  There  was  his  son  Jimmy — but  he  was 
a  young  ass  and  would  want  a  girl  with  more  go  in 
her,  though  sometimes  the  quiet  ones  bucked  up  a 
bit;  perhaps  she  would.  "You  must  come  and  see  us 
when  you  are  at  Wavercombe,"  he  said;  "we  left  town 
earlier  than  usual  this  year — fear  we  shan't  come  up  for 
good  again  till  the  spring — going  to  Scotland  in  Sept- 
ember; now,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  Bendish,  I'll  go.  I'm 
not  wanted  at  present.  By  the  way" — his  tone  became 
confidential — "did  you  see  that  poor  Linda  Alliston  is 
getting  rid  of  her  husband?  I  am  afraid  she  is  breaking 
her  heart  over  it." 

"I'm  sorry." 

She  was  very  fond  of  him,  no  doubt  about  that. 
I  don't  know  what  there  is  about  the  fellow,  but  all 
the  women  seem  to  like  him." 

"Well,  he  is  a  difficult  man  to  hold." 

"Lady  Hester  has  gone  to  the  Engadine.  She  always 
gets  out  of  the  way  when  there's  any  trouble  about. 
Lady  Hester  is  Lady  Gilston's  cousin,  Miss  Fingal — 
mother  of  Mrs.  Alliston — lived  in  your  cottage  before 
your  uncle  bought  it.  Well,  good-bye.  Delighted  if 
there's  anything  I  can  do,  and  glad  to  have  met  you. 
Circumstances  sad,  of  course — better  in  future,  I  hope." 

"I  hope  so  too,"  she  answered  softly,  "and  thank 
you  for — for  your  kindness." 

"Don't   mention   it." 

He  thought  as  he  crossed  Bedford  Square,  "She 
hasn't  spunk  enough  for  Jimmy.  I  believe  he'd  like 
Linda,  but  she  wouldn't  look  at  him;  good  thing  too — 
a  delicate  woman  with  two  children,  I  should  have  them 
all  on  my  hands — bad  enough  as  it  is  with  Lady  Hester." 


IV. 

"You  had  better  see  the  house,  if  you  don't  know  it,'* 
the  lawyer  said,  when  he  had  locked  up  some  papers 
in  the  drawer  of  the  writing-table.  He  was  a  little 
puzzled  what  to  do  next  with  his  client.  She  was 
looking  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  highly  polished 
marble  mantelpiece,  and  up  at  an  oil-painting  above  it 
of  some  worthy  gentleman  who  was  gradually  retiring 
into  blackness  and  oblivion;  an  ancestor  of  uncle  John's 
and  hers  too,  perhaps,  who,  judging  from  the  stiff 
arrangement  round  his  neck  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  brushed  his  hair,  must  have  lived  long  ago.  She 
dreaded  hearing  that  she  had  more  or  less  descended 
from  him. 

"Come,"  Mr.  Bendish  said  firmly.  He  spoke  for  a 
moment  to  Stimson,  who  was  at  the  end  of  the  hall, 
before  he  walked  up  the  wide  staircase  beside  her. 

"Of  course  everything  here  is  yours  now,"  he  said,  and 
looked  at  her  as  if  expecting  to  see  some  effect  of  his 
words.  But  she  merely  said  "Yes/'  as  if  she  were  not 
much  interested,  though  a  sense  of  possessions  was 
being  borne  down  upon  her,  and  she  was  wondering 
what  she  would  do  with  those  at  Battersea.  She  could 
not  sell  them,  as  Mrs.  Bailey  had  suggested;  it  would 
seem  cruel,  after  all  the  years  she  had  lived  with  them. 
She  thought  especially  of  an  autotype  of  the  Sistine 
Madonna  over  the  fireplace  of  her  sitting-room,  and 
quailed  at  the  remembrance  of  the  dark  portrait  in  the 
study  here.  Was  she  going  to  see  it  every  day?  It 
looked  as  if  it  recognised  and  had  been  waiting  for  her, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  gave  her  a  sense  of 
continuity,  of  which  she  was  a  part,  that  filled  her  with 

13 


14  Miss  Fingal 

something  like  dread.  Her  curiosity  needed  bracing 
with  courage  as  she  entered  the  large  double  drawing- 
room  for  the  first  time.  It  looked  dull  and  cold  and 
bare;  she  felt  that  people  who  were  dead  had  sat  on  the 
sofas  and  chairs,  or  fingered  the  books  on  the  round 
satinwood  table.  At  the  end  of  the  back  room,  on  low 
black  pedestals,  were  two  white  alabaster  vases,  very 
tall  and  slim  and  ghostly  with  glass  shades  over  them. 
Uncle  John  had  bought  them  many  years  ago  in  Pisa. 

"They  are  very  beautiful,"  the  lawyer  said;  "I  dare 
say  they  cost  a  great  deal  of  money." 

The  hangings  and  covers  of  the  furniture  were  faded 
and  drab,  there  were  two  fire-screens  with  glass-covered 
landscapes  worked  in  silk  and  enclosed  in  gilt  frames, 
a  satinwood  piano,  and  a  bookcase  full  of  old  books  well 
bound;  they  too  were  guarded  behind  glass,  as  if  only 
to  be  read  on  state  occasions.  When  she  had  taken  it 
all  in,  she  hesitated  and  looked  at  the  lawyer. 

"Come  up,"  he  said  with  sudden  solemnity,  and  she 
knew  she  was  going  to  the  bedroom  above  the  drawing- 
room.  He  stopped  before  the  door  as  if  to  gather  the 
right  deportment,  then  turned  the  key.  She  followed 
him  in  and  peered  through  the  dimness  and  shivered. 
It  was  very  cold  and  still.  A  large  mahogany  ward- 
robe, and  a  cheval-glass  near  the  window,  came  out  of 
the  gloom;  and  then  an  old-fashioned  four-post  bed- 
stead with  curtains  and  canopy.  She  turned  her  eyes 
towards  it  last  of  all.  A  linen  sheet,  very  white  and 
smooth,  was  spread  over  it;  it  outlined  the  form  of 
uncle  John  lying  beneath.  .  .  .  Was  she  going  to  sleep 
in  that  room  presently?  .  .  .  Suddenly,  with  a  sense 
of  relief,  she  saw  over  the  mantelpiece  an  autotype  of 
the  Sistine  Madonna,  much  larger  than  the  one  in  the 
little  sitting-room  at  the  flat.  She  felt  that  it  would 
protect  her  in  the  long  days  and  nights  that  were  to 
come.  She  stood  almost  transfixed  till  Mr.  Bendish  put 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Let  us  go  down,"  he  said. 
"Or  would  you  rather  see  the  other  rooms  first?" 

"Oh  no,"  she  tried  to  prevent  her  voice  from  shaking, 
"it's  all  so  strange,  I  would  rather  not  see  any  more 
just  now." 


Miss  Fingal  15 

He  carefully  locked  the  door  again,  and  they  went 
towards  the  stairs. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  shall  manage  in  such  a  big 
place.  Do  you  think  I  must  live  here?"  she  asked 
appealingly. 

''Your  uncle  wouldn't  like  to  think  that  you  lived  any- 
where else  in  London.  You  must  gather  some  cheerful 
companions  round  you." 

"I  don't  know  anybody." 

"You  soon  will.  Friends  and  acquaintances  grow  up 
in  a  night  when  you  become  rich." 

"But  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  them." 

Mr.  Bendish  looked  at  her  hopelessly.  "Let  us  come 
in  here  for  a  moment,"  he  said  when  they  had  reached 
the  first  floor.  They  re-entered  the  drawing-room  and 
he  shut  the  door,  evidently  to  consult  her  on  an  im- 
portant point;  it  brought  the  new  position  home  to  her. 
"I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  about  the  servants,"  he 
said — "they  lived  with  your  uncle  a  good  many  years, 
and  know  all  the  ropes.  Don't  you  think  you  had  better 
keep  them  on?" 

"Must  I  have  many?  I  have  never  been  used  to  man- 
age servants." 

"They'll  manage  themselves:  there's  an  excellent 
cook-housekeeper,  Mrs.  Turner;  and  there's  Stimson — a 
valuable  servant.  I  believe  they're  all  of  them  good 
creatures  and  won't  give  you  any  trouble — better  keep 
them,  they'll  take  care  of  you." 

"But  shall  I  be  rich  enough?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,  you'll  have  three  thousand 
a  year  and  no  rent  to  pay — except,  of  course,  the 
ground  rent  here,  which  is  a  trifle;  and  if  the  money  is 
better  invested  it  will  bring  in  twice  as  much;  your 
uncle  was  a  careful  man,  shy  of  investments  that  paid 
more  than  three  and  a  half  per  cent." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with 
it  all.  I  think  you  must  look  after  it  for  me  if  you  will." 

"Most  certainly.  Gilston  and  I  are  trustees  till — 
well,  for  the  present — and  as  we  knew  your  uncle  for  a 
great  many  years,  of  course,  we  shall  take  care  of  his 
niece."  His  speech  soothed  away  many  difficulties  that 


l8  Miss  Fingal 

Stimson  answered  solemnly:  "We  will  do  our  best, 
ma'am,  our  very  best — all  of  us." 

"One  moment,"  Mr.  Bendish  said  to  her  when  they 
had  reached  the  hall.  "I  should  like  to  speak  to  you." 
They  went  to  the  library  and  his  tone  became  business- 
like. "You  will  probably  want  to  make  arrangements 
for  leaving  your  present  abode,  especially  if  you  change 
your  servants  or " 

"But  I  haven't  any  servants — a  woman  comes  in 
every  morning  to  do  for  me." 

"Well,  perhaps  you'll  want  to  do  something  for  the 
woman  who  comes  in  every  morning,"  he  suggested, 
with  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  firm  lips.  "There  will 
naturally  be  a  good  many  expenses — there  always  are 
at  these  times.  Wouldn't  it  be  some  convenience  to 
you  if  I  gave  you  a  cheque  for  £100 — would  £100 
be  enough?" 

It  took  away  her  breath.  "Oh,  but  —  no,  I 
couldn't " 

"It's  not  my  money,  it's  your  own.  I'm  only  trying 
to  be  an  agreeable  executor  and  useful.  Let  me  give 
it  you  at  once."  He  took  a  cheque-book  from  his  breast- 
pocket and  a  pen  from  the  great  inkstand  on  the  writing- 
table.  "I  had  better  cross  it.  Who  is  your  banker?" 

"I  always  get  my  quarter's  money  from  the  bank 
at  the  corner  of  Sloane  Street." 

"Quite  so — I  dare  say  you  will  pay  it  in  on  your  way 
back.  I  am  glad  I  thought  of  it.  Good-bye.  On 
Thursday,  here,  at  two  o'clock" — they  were  in  the  hall 
by  this  time.  "Stimson,  a  taxi  for  Miss  Fingal." 

A  taxi!  She  was  excited  at  last,  though  she  showed 
no  sign  of  it. 


SHE  walked  from  the  Sloane  Street  bank  in  a  dream, 
till  she  came  to  the  houses  in  Cheyne  Walk;  then  she 
looked  up  and  realised  with  a  little  dismay  that  she  was 
going  away  from  them — away  from  the  flat  windows  of 
the  houses  that  were  her  friends,  and  the  old-fashioned 
gardens;  some  of  them  were  flagged  and  grass  grew 
between  their  paving-stones,  very  green  grass  with 
sturdy  upright  blades.  She  felt  as  if  they  remembered 
different  people  from  any  who  had  lived  in  uncle  John's 
house — old  ladies  with  kind  faces  and  white  hands,  who 
wore  brocade  dresses  and  carried  lace-edged  handker- 
chiefs, and  old  gentlemen  with  gold-topped  sticks,  and 
lappets  to  their  coat  pockets,  who  smiled  benevolently  at 
those  who  were  younger.  The  houses  in  which  they  had 
lived  had  somehow  become  saturated  with  their  sedate 
kindness,  and  gave  out  messages  to  those  who  under- 
stood: it  was  a  hazy  dream  that  sometimes  just  drifted 
through  her  consciousness,  but  it  gave  her  a  sense  of 
content  that  nothing  else  in  the  world  did. 

Mrs.  Bailey  was  waiting  for  her,  which  was  out  of  the 
common,  for  she  usually  vanished  at  noon. 

"I  thought  I'd  like  to  hear  how  you  got  on,  miss," 
she  explained,  "and  that  you  might  want  a  cup  of  tea 
to  refresh  you."  She  had  set  out  the  blue  cup  and  saucer, 
and  the  kettle  was  on  the  spirit-lamp. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  Miss  Fingal  said  gratefully. 

"Well,  it's  weary  work  seeing  the  dead,  I  always 
think  that.  Did  he  look  happy?" 

"I  didn't  see  him,"  the  answer  came  with  a  little 
shudder,  "there  was  a  sheet  over  him." 

"Poor  dear,  I  wonder  you  didn't."  Mrs.  Bailey  evi- 

19 


i8  Miss  Fingal 

Stimson  answered  solemnly:  "We  will  do  our  best, 
ma'am,  our  very  best — all  of  us." 

"One  moment,"  Mr.  Bendish  said  to  her  when  they 
had  reached  the  hall.  "I  should  like  to  speak  to  you." 
They  went  to  the  library  and  his  tone  became  business- 
like. "You  will  probably  want  to  make  arrangements 
for  leaving  your  present  abode,  especially  if  you  change 
your  servants  or " 

"But  I  haven't  any  servants — a  woman  comes  in 
every  morning  to  do  for  me." 

"Well,  perhaps  you'll  want  to  do  something  for  the 
woman  who  comes  in  every  morning,"  he  suggested, 
with  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  firm  lips.  "There  will 
naturally  be  a  good  many  expenses — there  always  are 
at  these  times.  Wouldn't  it  be  some  convenience  to 
you  if  I  gave  you  a  cheque  for  £100 — would  £100 
be  enough?" 

It  took  away  her  breath.  "Oh,  but  —  no,  I 
couldn't " 

"It's  not  my  money,  it's  your  own.  I'm  only  trying 
to  be  an  agreeable  executor  and  useful.  Let  me  give 
it  you  at  once."  He  took  a  cheque-book  from  his  breast- 
pocket and  a  pen  from  the  great  inkstand  on  the  writing- 
table.  "I  had  better  cross  it.  Who  is  your  banker?" 

"I  always  get  my  quarter's  money  from  the  bank 
at  the  corner  of  Sloane  Street." 

"Quite  so — I  dare  say  you  will  pay  it  in  on  your  way 
back.  I  am  glad  I  thought  of  it.  Good-bye.  On 
Thursday,  here,  at  two  o'clock" — they  were  in  the  hall 
by  this  time.  "Stimson,  a  taxi  for  Miss  Fingal." 

A  taxi!  She  was  excited  at  last,  though  she  showed 
no  sign  of  it 


SHE  walked  from  the  Sloane  Street  bank  in  a  dream, 
till  she  came  to  the  houses  in  Cheyne  Walk;  then  she 
looked  up  and  realised  with  a  little  dismay  that  she  was 
going  away  from  them — away  from  the  flat  windows  of 
the  houses  that  were  her  friends,  and  the  old-fashioned 
gardens;  some  of  them  were  flagged  and  grass  grew 
between  their  paving-stones,  very  green  grass  with 
sturdy  upright  blades.  She  felt  as  if  they  remembered 
different  people  from  any  who  had  lived  in  uncle  John's 
house — old  ladies  with  kind  faces  and  white  hands,  who 
wore  brocade  dresses  and  carried  lace-edged  handker- 
chiefs, and  old  gentlemen  with  gold-topped  sticks,  and 
lappets  to  their  coat  pockets,  who  smiled  benevolently  at 
those  who  were  younger.  The  houses  in  which  they  had 
lived  had  somehow  become  saturated  with  their  sedate 
kindness,  and  gave  out  messages  to  those  who  under- 
stood: it  was  a  hazy  dream  that  sometimes  just  drifted 
through  her  consciousness,  but  it  gave  her  a  sense  of 
content  that  nothing  else  in  the  world  did. 

Mrs.  Bailey  was  waiting  for  her,  which  was  out  of  the 
common,  for  she  usually  vanished  at  noon. 

"I  thought  I'd  like  to  hear  how  you  got  on,  miss," 
she  explained,  "and  that  you  might  want  a  cup  of  tea 
to  refresh  you."  She  had  set  out  the  blue  cup  and  saucer, 
and  the  kettle  was  on  the  spirit-lamp. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  Miss  Fingal  said  gratefully. 

"Well,  it's  weary  work  seeing  the  dead,  I  always 
think  that.  Did  he  look  happy?" 

"I  didn't  see  him,"  the  answer  came  with  a  little 
shudder,  "there  was  a  sheet  over  him." 

"Poor  dear,  I  wonder  you  didn't."  Mrs.  Bailey  evi- 

10 


20  Miss  Fingal 

dently  thought  that  Miss  Fingal  had  neglected  her  duty, 
and  she  paused  before  putting  the  next  question.  "Has 
he  done  well  by  you,  miss?  If  you  don't  mind  my 
asking." 

"Oh  yes,  he  has  done  very — very  well  by  me." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  I'm  sure.  And  I  dare  say  I  was 
right — you'll  be  leaving  the  flat?" 

"Yes,  I'll  be  leaving  the  flat,"  she  echoed,  and  looked 
out  towards  the  balcony. 

"You'll  be  sorry,  I'm  sure.     Will  it  be  soon,  miss?" 

"Yes,  very  soon." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  tell  them  at  the  office?  You 
see,  if  that  young  couple  was  still  wanting  one  they 
might  be  glad  of  it." 

"Yes,"  Miss  Fingal  answered — it  gave  her  a  little 
wrench  to  say  it.  "I  am  going  to  live  in  Bedford 
Square." 

"I  know  Bedford  Square,  a  niece  of  mine  was  once 
housemaid  there.  They're  fine  houses,  with  lots  of 
cleaning  to  them — but  perhaps  that  won't  matter." 

"No,  it  won't  matter;  there  are  servants." 

"A  good  many  now,  I  dare  say?" 

"I  think  so — there's  a  man-servant." 

Mrs.  Bailey  was  getting  at  details  and  thoroughly 
enjoying  herself.  "Well  now,  think  of  that!  you  won't 
want  the  flat  any  more.  That  young  couple  might 
take  it  off  your  hands  at  once  and  be  done  with  it — I 
dare  say  you'd  make  it  a  bit  easy  for  them?" 

"Easy  for  them?  Yes,  I'll  make  it  easy — but  in 
what  way  do  you  mean?"  Miss  Fingal  was  unused 
to  business. 

"Why,  you  see,  you  mightn't  charge  them  till  the 
half-quarter  perhaps?  And  then  there's  the  fittings — 
perhaps  you  would  let  'them  go  cheap.  Anything  that 
wasn't  wanted,  I'd  be  glad  to  have,  miss,"  firmly 
putting  in  a  word  for  herself.  "Is  the  house  in  Bedford 
Square  furnished  and  ready  for  you?" 

"Yes,  it's  furnished,  and  very  soon  it  will  be  ready." 

"I  never!  You'll  want  to  get  rid  of  these  things  then. 
I  know  a  man  in  Lawrence  Row  who'd  give  you  quite  a 
fair  price.  Shall  I  speak  to  him?" 


Miss  Fingal  21 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  sell  them  for  the  world,"  she  roused 
herself,  as  became  her  new  responsibilities.  "I  must 
think  it  all  over,  Mrs.  Bailey,  but  you  can  tell  them  at  the 
office  that  if  the  young  couple  want  the  flat — or  any 
one  does — I  should  like  them  to  let  me  know." 

"Yes,  miss,  certainly.  And  I'll  be  here  in  the  morn- 
ing." Mrs.  Bailey  felt  herself  dismissed. 

With  a  sense  of  relief  Miss  Fingal  watched  her  go. 
She  wanted  to  try  and  realise  that  she  was  rich  and 
going  away.  The  riches,  despite  the  hundred  pounds 
she  had  carried  to  the  bank  not  an  hour  ago,  were 
abstract  and  vague  as  yet;  she  put  the  thought  of  them 
from  her  as  being  too  intangible  to  grasp.  The  going 
away  was  a  fact  at  which  she  stared  blankly  and  sur- 
prised. She  looked  round  the  little  square  room  and 
thought  of  the  long  years  of  peace,  and  wondered  what 
sort  of  life  was  going  to  begin.  A  little  curiosity  and 
eagerness  took  hold  of  her.  The  window  was  open;  she 
went  out  to  the  balcony.  A  band  was  playing,  so  far  off 
that  it  was  almost  indistinct,  but  some  children  in  the 
middle  distance  heard  it  plainly  for  they  began  to  dance; 
she  looked  at  them  through  the  strange  barrier  that 
always  seemed  to  be  between  herself  and  the  world. 

As  she  listened  and  watched,  a  smile  came  to  her  lips ; 
she  stood  with  her  head  thrown  back,  with  the  expanse 
of  green  at  her  feet,  and  the  greater  expanse  of  sky 
overhead,  flecked  with  little  fleecy  clouds — and  a  dim 
sense  of  what  might  be  came  to  her,  the  beginning  of  a 
fairy  story  suggested  itself.  She  had  probably  many  years 
to  live — there  were  strange  things  to  do  and  wonderful 
places  to  go  to,  if  she  could  find  out  how  to  do  them, 
how  to  go  to  them.  She  was  not  yet  twenty-nine. 
The  dressmaker's  daughter  in  Chelsea,  who  made  her 
navy-blue  dress,  was  thirty-five  and  looked  like  a  girl; 
but  Miss  Fingal  had  felt  old  ever  since  she  was  nine- 
teen and  went  to  live  with  her  morose  father  in  the 
London  lodging.  It  was  difficult  to  shake  off  the  still- 
ness, the  growth,  as  of  moss,  that  had  almost  closed 
into  her  life.  She  remembered  a  book  she  had  brought 
back  from  the  library  once  when  she  couldn't  find  a 
novel  that  looked  interesting,  a  book  of  travel  in  Italy, 


22  Miss  Fingal 

with  pictures  of  beautiful  places:  she  had  thought  how 
wonderful  it  would  be  to  see  them;  she  might  see  them 
now — some  day,  if  she  had  courage.  It  would  need  so 
much  courage  to  go  to  them  alone,  for  she  had  never 
gone  anywhere  in  her  life  except  from  the  school  in 
the  country  to  her  father's  lodgings  and  to  a  dull 
seaside  place  once  or  twice  with  him,  and  back  to  the 
lodgings,  and  later  to  the  flat  at  Battersea.  .  .  .  Then, 
being  a  woman,  and  under  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Bailey, 
she  remembered  the  conventionalities  and  the  dress- 
maker in  Chelsea.  "I  must  go  out  in  the  morning," 
she  thought,  "and  buy  some  black  things." 

On  Thursday,  feeling  very  strange  in  "the  black 
things,"  she  went  to  Bedford  Square  and  sat  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  large  desolate  drawing-room  with 
the  blinds  down,  on  the  old-fashioned  sofa  with  the 
bolster  at  each  end,  while  uncle  John  was  carried 
from  the  room  above,  past  the  closed  door  that  hid 
her,  and  out  of  the  house.  Presently  a  kindly  middle- 
aged  woman  of  the  superior  servant  class  entered. 
"I  thought  I  might  venture  to  come,  miss,"  she  said; 
"I'm  Turner,  and  been  with  Mr.  Fingal  as  cook- 
housekeeper  these  seventeen  years — is  there  anything 
I  could  do  for  you?  If  you'd  lie  down  now  and" — 
she  looked  at  the  hard  little  bolster — "I'll  get  you  a 
pillow.  Mr.  Fingal  wasn't  one  for  cushions " 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Miss  Fingal  said  helplessly. 

"There,"  when  she  had  brought  the  pillow  and  put 
a  sombre  iron-grey  eider-down  over  her,  "they  won't 
be  back  for  a  long  time,  then  they  are  to  go  to  the 
dining-room  to  read  the  will,  and  after  that  there'll  be 
tea.  You'll  do  better  for  a  little  rest,  miss;  this  is  the 
sort  of  day  that  doesn't  come  often,  but  it  has  to  be 
got  through." 

A  couple  of  hours  later  in  the  dining-room  she  was 
seated  in  the  largest  arm-chair — Sir  James  Gilston  con- 
ducted her  to  it  and  insisted — while  she  listened  to 
uncle  John's  will.  Two  thousand  pounds  to  a  hospital, 
the  usual  legacies  to  the  executors,  a  year's  wages  to 
each  of  the  servants,  and  everything  else  to  his  niece — 
Aline  Mary  Fingal.  She  made  no  sign:  and  it  was  very 


Miss  Fingal  23 

strange,  but  she  was  beginning  to  accept  the   strange- 
ness. 

In  an  hour  she  was  at  the  flat  once  more.  She  looked 
round  at  the  familiar  bits  of  furniture.  There  was  no 
place  for  them  in  Bedford  Square.  "I  don't  feel  half 
grateful  enough  for  uncle  John's  kindness,"  she  told  her- 
self, "I  ought  not  to  be  sorry  at  all  to  go  away.  But  I 
am,  and  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with  all  these 
things.  Perhaps  I'd  bettei  warehouse  them  in  case  I 
ever  return." 


VL 


THE  young  couple  called  to  see  the  flat  two  days  later. 
A  happy  middle-class  couple,  a  little  subdued  in  their 
behaviour,  for  they  recognised  that  Miss  Fingal  was  on 
a  higher  social  level  than  themselves.  He  was  a  clerk 
in  a  house-agent's  office,  tall  and  fair  and  freckly,  with  a 
pleasant  smile  and  a  deferential  manner  that  he  tried  to 
make  easy.  She  was  young  and  pretty,  anxious  to  be 
lady-like,  and  with  a  quick  eye  for  business.  Miss 
Fingal  liked  them;  she  felt  as  if  a  bit  of  the  park  she 
had  never  entered  had  come  to  her,  for  they  told  her 
they  had  often  walked  there  of  an  evening  and  looked 
up  at  her  standing  on  the  balcony.  "But  we  never 
thought  of  coming  to  live  here." 

"It's  a  nice  flat,"  Miss  Fingal  said;  "I  think  you 
would  be  very  happy — I  am  very  fond  of  it,"  she  added, 
— the  words  seemed  to  say  themselves. 

The  young  man  considered  for  a  moment  or  two. 
"Don't  you  think  we  might  run  to  it,  Vi?"  he  asked  his 
sweetheart.  "I  can't  see  that  we'd  do  better.  There's 
nothing  as  good  on  our  books  at  the  office." 

"We  shouldn't  be  able  to  make  it  as  nice  as  this." 
Vi  looked  round.  "You  see,  Mr.  Foale  and  I  have  only 
been  engaged  six  months,  and  things  take  time  to  get," 
she  explained. 

Mr.  Foale — his  Christian  appeared  to  be  Bert — 
became  more  intimate  in  his  tone.  "We've  been  saving 
up,"  he  said,  "but  it  takes  time,  and  costs  a  good  deal 
to  furnish  a  place  like  this.  "Miss  Clark,"  he  indicated 
Vi  with  a  little  flourish  of  his  hand,  "will  have  to  give 
up  her  work  too  when  we're  married." 

24 


Miss  Fingal  25 

"What  work  do  you  do?"  Miss  Fingal  was  ashamed 
of  her  own  impertinence  in  asking. 

"I  am  the  cashier  at  Hanway's  in  King's  Road." 
Miss  Clark  was  rather  pleased  to  proclaim  it. 

"And  when  are  you  going  to  be  married?" 

"Well — after  next  week.  I  leave  on  the  Saturday, 
but  we  shall  go  away  for  about  three  or  four  days.  Per- 
haps you  wouldn't  want  to  turn  out  so  soon  as  that?" 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  turn  out  in  a  few  days,  and  I  shall 
be  so  sorry  if  the  flat  is  empty.  It  would  be  very  sad 
after  all  the  years  I  have  lived  in  it."  She  spoke  as  if 
the  flat  were  conscious. 

"I  believe  it  would  be  lovely,"  Vi  said;  "and  you 
know,  Bert,  we'd  try  to  make  it  look  as  much  like  this 
as  possible." 

Miss  Fingal's  heart  warmed  to  her. 

"I  vote  we  take  it,"  he  answered,  "and  trust  to 
luck." 

"I  should  love  it,"  Vi  looked  up  at  him  with  delight. 

"What  about  the  fittings?"  Mr.  Foale  inquired.  "I 
mean  in  the  passages,  and  the  oilcloth — fixtures  gene- 
rally. If  you  don't  want  too  much  for  them,  we  might 
take  them  off  your  hands." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  anything  for  them.  I  shall  be  so 
glad  if  they  are  useful  to  you." 

"Don't  want  anything?"  Vi  exclaimed.  "How 
lovely  of  you !  Oh,  Bert !" — with  a  little  burst  of  joy — 
"I  know  we  shall  be  very  happy  here.  Is  there  nothing 
to  pay  to  come  in,  blinds  or  anything ?" 

"No — no  blinds  or  anything."  Miss  Fingal  was 
almost  excited.  A  sudden  thought  had  struck  her. 
"Are  you  going  to  buy  furniture?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  we've  got  to  buy  everything,"  Bert  answered 
cheerfully;  "we  shall  have  to  do  it  gradually,  but " 

"Let  me  give  you  all  this" — she  looked  round  with 
lingering  affection  at  her  little  home.  "I  should  like  to 
think  of  you  two  living  here  and  being  happy;  perhaps 
it  would  help  you?" 

"Give  us!     Give  us  what?"  he  asked  unbelievingly. 

"These  things,"  their  owner  said  humbly. 

"You  don't  mean  this  furniture?" 


26  Miss  Fingal 

"I  should  like  you  to  have  it,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Mind!"  Bert  exclaimed.  "I  never  heard  of  any- 
thing so  extra — extra  ripping  in  my  life;  but  we  could 
manage  to  give  you  something." 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  sell  it.  And  I  should  like  the  flat 
to  look  the  same." 

"But  I  say,  Vi!"  Mr.  Foale  turned  to  his  young 
woman. 

"Do  you  mean  all  these  things?"  Vi  wondered  if  she 
were  awake. 

"Yes,  everything."  Miss  Fingal  looked  up  at  the 
autotype  of  the  Sistine  Madonna  over  the  fireplace.  Vi 
noticed  it. 

"You  must  have  that  anyhow,"  she  said. 

Miss  Fingal  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  shouldn't  like 
to  see  it  taken  down.  And  there  is  one  where  I  am 
going."  She  thought  of  the  large  one  in  the  Oxford 
frame  at  Bedford  Square.  There  was  no  occasion  to 
take  this  little  one  of  past  years;  the  chapter  of  life 
with  which  it  was  concerned  had  finished.  The  lovers 
stood  looking  up  at  it  wonderstruck.  "I  should  like  you 
to  have  it  as  a  wedding  present,"  she  explained  with 
a  strange  little  laugh,  she  had  never  given  any  one  a 
wedding  present  before,  "and  to  think  that  you  will 
look  at  it  sometimes  when  you  are  alone."  The  last 
sentence  was  said  to  Vi. 

"Well,  but — I  can't  get  over  it!"  the  young  man 
burst  out.  "Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  give  us 
all  the  things  here?  Why,  you  hadn't  set  eyes  on  us  an 
hour  ago." 

"I'm  going  to  give  them  all  to  you.  If  you  live  in  the 
flat,  because  I  want  them  to  be  here.  If  thtre  are  one 
or  two  that  you  can't  use,  I  should  like  Mrs  Bailey  to 
have  them,  if  you  don't  mind.  She  is  the  woman  who 
comes  in  to  do  for  me." 

"Well,  I  never  did !"  he  exclaimed  under  his  breath. 

"She  got  our  address  and  came  and  told  us  about  the 
flat,"  Vi  said.  "She  offered  to  come  and  do  for  us  in 
the  morning  if  we  took  it.  We  shall  be  awfully  glad  of 
her  sometimes,  for  of  course  we  can't  afford  a  servant. 
And  we'll  give  her  anything  that's  of  no  use,"  a  promise 


Miss  Fingal  27 

of  which  the  humour  was  not  apparent  to  any  one  of 
the  three. 

"It  all  seems  to  fit  in,"  Miss  Fingal  said,  and  it  was 
wonderful  how  much  comfort  the  arrangement  gave  her. 

She  was  glad  when  they  went;  she  listened  gratefully 
to  their  footsteps  descending  the  stairs,  to  their  low- 
toned  rejoicing  voices  as  they  reached  the  second  flight. 
Then  she  shut  the  door  and  sat  down.  She  knew  now 
that  she  was  really  going  to  Bedford  Square — the  flat 
would  go  on  without  her — without  her,  and  it  would 
look  just  the  same.  .  .  .  The  young  couple  would  stand 
on  the  balcony;  sometimes  they  would  go  over  to  the 
park  and  walk  about  under  the  trees,  and  come  back, 
laughing  and  happy,  and  the  things — her  things — would 
be  waiting  for  them  in  the  little  flat  she  would  probably 
never  see  again. 

A  few  days  later  she  left  it  for  ever.  The  key  was 
given  to  Mrs.  Bailey,  and  to  Mrs.  Bailey  she  gave  most 
of  her  clothes,  for  the  Sloane  Street  shops  and  the 
hundred  pounds  had  done  well  by  her,  though  her  dis- 
creet choice  of  outward  garments,  and  the  fact  that  she 
felt  she  owed  uncle  John  the  tribute  of  wearing  black, 
caused  little  change  in  her  appearance. 

Mrs.  Bailey  received  her  gifts  with  more  emotion  than 
she  had  formerly  shown  for  cast-offs,  and  the  climax  of 
a  five-pound  note,  a  fresh  crisp  one  from  the  bank, 
fairly  took  away  her  breath.  "I  knew  she  was  a  lady, 
you  can  always  tell,"  she  thought  as  she  looked  after 
the  taxi  and  the  three  trunks  of  very  moderate  size. 
"Fancy  her  givin'  me  five  pounds,  never  knew  such  a 
thing  in  my  life;  for  no  matter  what  people  are,  they're 
often  close  enough  with  their  money;  give  you  a  thing 
or  two  they  can't  wear  any  longer  themselves,  but  they 
won't  part  with  their  cash  if  they  can  help  it.  Well, 
I'm  sorry  to  see  the  last  of  her!" 

"The  servants,  who  were  all  middle-aged,  even  the 
second  housemaid  was  well  over  thirty,  assembled  them- 
selves in  the  hall  in  an  old-time  manner  for  Miss  Fingal's 
arrival.  Unconsciously,  they  were  rather  sorry  for  her, 
as  if  they  recognised  the  bewilderment  that  made  her 
almost  speechless. 


28  Miss  Fingal 

"I  suppose  your  luggage  will  come  on,  miss?"  Stim- 
son  inquired. 

"No,  I  have  brought  everything;  I  haven't  any  other 
luggage  at  all,"  she  told  him. 

"Thank  you,  miss." 

The  taxi  was  paid.     The  door  was  shut. 

"You'll  come  upstairs,  won't  you,  miss?"  Mrs. 
Turner's  voice  was  kind  and  welcoming;  and  the  new 
mistress  went  up,  telling  herself  with  every  stair  she  trod 
that  she  had  come  to  live  in  uncle  John's  house. 


VII. 


THEN  the  round  of  day  and  night  began.  She  felt 
isolated  and  half  afraid,  as  if  she  were  an  intruder; 
it  seemed  unbelievable  that  this  big  house  was  her 
own,  and  that  all  these  large  pieces  of  furniture  be- 
longed to  her.  It  was  absurd,  of  course,  but  in  a 
sense  they  frightened  her.  They  looked  so  grim  and 
cold.  She  was  thankful  that  the  dining-room  had  a 
Turkey  carpet.  On  the  stairs,  in  the  drawing-room  and 
in  the  library  behind  the  dining-room,  everywhere, 
there  was  Brussels  carpet,  patient,  uncompromising,  and 
in  excellent  condition;  there  was  no  excuse  for  renewing 
it,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  do  that,  but  it  was  hard 
and  unyielding  to  the  tread,  and  the  patterns  on  it 
seemed  to  look  up  at  her  with  curious  malice.  The 
hearth-rugs  matched  the  carpets;  there  were  no  skins  or 
Persian  rugs  suggestive  of  far-off  lands  and  turbaned 
people,  of  burning  sun  and  bluest  sky.  There  were 
only  brown-fibre  mats  with  red  borders  outside  the 
doors.  Everything  in  the  house  seemed  to  be  cold 
and  repellant,  and  helped  to  give  her  a  sense  of  finality, 
— the  wide  street  door  that  opened  to  show  a  hall  with 
large  black-and-white  squares,  icy  to  the  feet,  and  the 
broad  shallow  stairs  that  generations  of  sedate  well- 
conducted  people  had  gone  up  and  down  for  a  hundred 
years — two  hundred  years  perhaps — she  didn't  know 
how  long  the  house  had  been  standing.  But  she 
felt,  for  her  thoughts  were  never  very  clear  or  definite, 
that  all  its  tenants  had  been  staid  and  middle-aged, 
slow  of  step,  severe  of  speech,  important  and  well-con- 
ducted. Now  it  was  her  turn  to  be  important  and 
well-conducted.  She  was  living  alone,  as  uncle  John 

29 


30  Miss  Fingal 

had  lived,  and  those  many  others  before  him  had  lived, 
in  the  large  hollow  house,  the  house  of  silences  so 
complete  that  even  echoes  had  deserted  it.  This  was 
the  history  of  her  life.  There  was  nothing  more  to 
happen  till  some  day  she  would  lie  on  the  great  bed 
upstairs,  as  uncle  John  had  lain,  to  be  carried  out  with 
a  shuffling  of  feet  as  he  had  been,  and  then  people  would 
listen  to  the  reading  of  her  will,  as  she  had  listened  to 
the  reading  of  his :  she  wondered  who  the  strange  people 
would  be  who  followed  after ;  but  she  wondered  placidly. 

The  servants  were  an  immense  comfort  to  her.  At 
first  she  spoke  to  them  with  doubt  and  inward  trembling, 
but  gradually  this  gave  way  to  a  sense  of  security  and  of 
gratitude  that  they  had  consented  to  stay,  to  eat  good 
food  and  receive  their  excellent  wages.  And  she  had 
reason  to  be  grateful,  for  she  would  not  have  known  how 
to  set  about  re-organising  the  household  and  apportion- 
ing out  the  duties  of  each  domestic:  she  had  never 
stayed  in  houses  of  the  Bedford  Square  sort,  she  had 
visited  nowhere.  Her  way  in  the  world  had  been  taken 
through  furnished  lodgings  and  the  Battersea  flat. 

Battersea ! 

She  thought  of  it  with  a  little  smile  and  wondered 
how  the  young  couple  were  getting  on,  if  they  employed 
Mrs.  Bailey,  and  whether,  in  the  evening,  they  stood  out 
on  the  balcony  and  watched  the  people  in  the  park 
across  the  way;  but  they  would  feel  that  it  was  their 
own  world  they  looked  upon,  their  own  people  who 
went  to  and  fro,  or  sat  about,  or  made  holiday.  There 
would  be  no  invisible  barrier  between  them  as  there  had 
been  between  her  and  all  that  they  represented. 

Sometimes  the  contemplation  of  her  life  and  its  sur- 
roundings provoked  thoughts  that  were  new  to  her. 
They  seemed  to  come  from  outside  sources,  not  to  be 
evolved  by  her  own  heart  and  brain;  but  her  limita- 
tions and  lack  of  experiences,  of  real  knowledge  of  any 
sort,  put  them  into  a  cul  de  sac.  Life,  she  felt  on  one  of 
these  occasions,  had  such  different  bits  for  people,  and 
it  seemed  just  a  chance  which  bit  was  dealt  out  to  any 
one.  To  her  there  had  been  given  this  share  of 
monotony,  of  dulness,  of  high  respectability,  and  now 


Miss  Fingal  31 

of  affluence.  "I  ought  to  be  satisfied,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "I  never  dreamt  I  should  be  rich — "  and 
gratitude  became  a  daily  exercise.  It  began  every  morn- 
ing in  the  large  room  in  which  she  awakened,  with  a 
passing  remembrance  of  uncle  John.  The  housemaid 
came  in  with  tea  and  thin  bread  and  butter,  a  luxury 
she  had  never  known  before  and  hardly  appreciated. 
But  she  had  no  courage  to  reject  it,  or  to  alter  what  she 
felt  to  be  the  domestic  regulations  of  the  house.  Break- 
fast was  always  served  in  the  library,  the  gaunt,  hoary- 
looking  room  with  the  books  in  dilapidated  brown  leather. 
There  was  a  little  Pembroke  table  on  one  side  with  two 
flaps;  it  was  brought  forward  in  the  morning  and  her 
breakfast  laid  upon  it.  "Mr.  Fingal  always  had  it  here, 
miss,"  Stimson  told  her  the  first  morning,  "and  we 
thought  you  would  like  to  do  the  same." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  and  meekly  sat  down  to  it.  He 
lifted  the  cover  from  the  hot  dish,  looked  at  it  critically, 
put  the  toast-rack  nearer  to  her  and  the  paper  beside 
her,  there  were  no  letters,  and  departed.  And  the  rest 
of  the  day  matched  the  beginning. 

Gradually  she  tried  to  put  more  into  her  life;  she 
subscribed  to  Mudie's,  which  was  near,  and  going  to  it 
gave  her  an  excuse  to  look  towards  the  railings  of  the 
British  Museum — they  fascinated  her.  One  day  she 
entered  in  at  the  gates,  up  the  steps,  through  the  swing- 
ing door  and  along  the  galleries  that  held  the  Elgin 
marbles.  There  were  two  youths  looking  at  them;  she 
heard  one  of  them  say  he  was  coming  to  draw  on 
student  days  in  the  winter  if  he  had  time.  Bits  of 
broken  marble,  hundreds  of  years,  perhaps  thousands 
of  years  old,  she  told  herself;  and  still  people  stood 
before  them  and  wondered  and  wanted  to  learn  from 
them.  It  frightened  her  to  think  of  all  that  people  had 
done  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  to  see  the  living  people 
to-day,  swift  of  step  or  lingering  to  admire,  eager  to 
imitate,  perhaps  to  create  in  their  turn,  that  which 
would  stay  in  the  world  for  hundreds  of  years  to  come. 
The  words  ran  in  her  head  like  the  refrain  of  a  song — 
hundreds  of  years — hundreds  of  years.  She  went  out 
into  the  hall  again,  more  people,  living  people  entering 


32  Miss  Fingal 

and  going  through  two  swinging  doors  on  her  left.  She 
tried  to  follow  them,  and  was  told  that  the  reading- 
room  was  beyond  and  she  must  get  an  order  if  she 
wanted  to  see  it.  Then  she  looked  up  at  the  dome  and 
round  at  the  galleries  with  the  thousands  and  thousands 
of  books  on  their  shelves,  and  felt  as  if  something  in 
her  had  reached  out  a  little  farther  towards  actualities; 
but  still  there  was  an  imperceptible  barrier  between  her 
and  them. 

She  had  not  realised  what  her  money  could  do  yet, 
and  as  the  autumn  days  grew  shorter,  she  was  content 
to  stay  in  the  house  and  think  over  her  new  position. 
One  day  it  struck  her  that  she  would  have  the  satin- 
wood  piano  tuned  and  something  done  to  the  dis- 
coloured keys;  it  was  sweet-toned  and  easy  to  play. 
Sometimes  she  tried  to  remember  the  melodies  of  her 
school-days  and  one  or  two  bits  of  Grieg,  but  it  was 
always  a  feeble  little  performance,  and  she  knew  it. 

Mr.  Bendish  duly  sent  his  wife  to  call  when  she  re- 
turned from  the  country.  Miss  Fingal  looked  at  her 
gratefully,  but  she  had  nothing  to  say,  and  Mrs.  Bendish 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  no  good  for  social 
purposes.  Her  husband  agreed  with  her;  nevertheless, 
a  little  later  they  invited  her  to  a  dinner-party  ten  days 
ahead.  Miss  Fingal  had  no  excuse  for  refusing  their 
invitation,  for  it  was  some  time  now  since  uncle  John 
had  died.  So  she  ordered  a  black  evening  frock,  with 
as  little  decolletage  as  the  dressmaker  would  allow,  and 
a  pair  of  black  satin  shoes.  She  surveyed  them  with 
trepidation  and  surprised  pleasure,  and  sedately  enjoyed 
trying  them  on  before  the  cheval-glass  that  stood  aslant 
by  the  window  in  her  room. 

But  when  the  night  came  it  needed  courage  to  go  out 
in  her  unaccustomed  attire.  The  tortoise-shell  comb  in 
her  hair,  and  two  or  three  trinkets  that  had  belonged  to 
a  grandmother  (taken  from  their  cotton-wool  shelter) 
added  to  her  sense  of  strangeness.  She  entered  the 
room  with  an  air  of  appealing  curiosity,  and  her  eyes 
wider  open  than  usual.  "She  looks  as  if  she  had  been 
to  sleep  and  wonders  where  she  is,"  a  woman  said  to 
some  one  next  her. 


Miss  Fingal  33 

The  other  women  were  smarter;  they  had  heaps  of 
things  to  say,  to  laugh  at  and  discuss,  and  Miss  Fingal 
felt  abashed.  The  world  was  such  a  strange  place,  she 
thought,  so  many  people  were  in  it,  but  a  few — and  she 
was  one — were  kept  outside ;  always  that  sense,  the 
sense  of  not  having  entered  it,  was  with  her.  The  only 
fellow-guest  who  tried  to  be  agreeable  to  her  was  Jimmy 
Gilston.  Luckily  he  took  her  in.  He  was  a  kind  young 
man,  with  a  good  honest  dislike  for  work,  bored  by  his 
father's  second  wife,  and  generally  at  a  loose  end. 

"How  are  you  getting  on  in  Bedford  Square?"  he 
asked  her  genially. 

"I  don't  know— oh,  I  think  I'm  getting  on  very  well," 
she  answered,  in  the  strange  little  voice  that  seemed 
ashamed  of  being  heard.  "Bedford  Square  is  very 
nice." 

"I  like  those  old  houses  myself.  I  went  there  once 
or  twice  when  your  respected  uncle  was  alive,  and 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  if  the  servants  were  buried 
and  the  furniture  burned  and  the  entire  place  turned 
inside  out,  it  would  be  rather  ripping  to  live  there.  I 
expect  that's  what  you'll  do,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  for  the  world.  I  should  be  afraid. 
Uncle  John  liked  it  as  it  is " 

"Afraid  of  what — his  ghost?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"When  are  you  going  to  Wavercombe  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"   she  answered  again. 

"I  wish  she'd  know  something,"  he  thought,  "this  is 
rather  hard  work.  But  she's  a  nice  little  female,  or 
would  be  if  she  were  well  shaken,  or  fell  in  love  with  a 
soldier,  or  encountered  a  catastrophe  of  some  sort." 
He  tried  again.  "Wavercombe's  rather  a  dull  hole, 
you  know — luckily  for  me  I  don't  live  there.  My 
father  gave  us  a  stepmother,  so  when  it  was  possible  I 
came  up  to  London." 

"Do  you  do  anything?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  do  a  good  many  things,"  he  answered;  "but 
if  you  mean  do  I  do  any  work  or  have  I  any  profession, 
no,  I  don't  do  any  work.  I'm  reading  for  the  Bar — but 
I  shan't  be  any  good  at  it.  I  expect  I'm  a  rotter." 


34  Miss  Fingal 

"A  rotter?" 

"A  rotter,"  he  repeated  with  solemnity  and  convic- 
tion. "Don't  you  wish  you  were  one?  It  means  being 
no  use,  but  having  a  good  time,  or  remembering  one. 
What  do  you  do  with  yourself  all  day?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  again.  "I  find  every- 
thing very  strange." 

"Well,  if  you  won't  think  me  rude,  it's  my  opinion 
that  you  want  waking  up.  I  should  like  to  take  you  to 
a  music-hall  one  night." 

"Oh,  no,  I  couldn't" — she  was  alarmed,  "it  would  be 
unkind — so  soon  after  uncle  John's  death,"  she  added. 

"Well,  but  you  hardly  knew  him,  and  he's  quite  used 
to  being  where  he  is  by  this  time;  besides,  people  don't 
sit  at  home  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  now  and  mourn  for 
an  uncle — or  for  anybody  long." 

"Don't  they?" 

"No,  it  has  come  to  be  recognised  that  one  has  to  die 
and  there's  an  end  of  it,  and  it's  no  good  making  too 
much  fuss  about  it.  I  don't  believe  you  have  half 
grasped  your  position  yet,  or  realised  what  a  good  time 
you  might  have.  But  you  will  in  six  months.  You 
must  let  Bertha  go  and  see  you  when  she  comes  back. 
She'll  put  you  up  to  a  thing  or  two." 

"Who  is  Bertha?" 

"My  sister.  She  is  staying  now  with  our  humble 
relations  in  the  country  and  won't  be  home  for  some 
time;  she  has  a  little  flat  in  London  and  goes  about  on 
her  own." 

"Why  is  Wavercombe  a  hole?" 

"It  isn't  really,  but  the  people  who  live  round  about 
give  one  the  impression  of  standing  on  their  hind-legs  to 
look  at  each  other,  and  greatly  approving." 

"Oh!" 

"But  your  cottage  is  a  jolly  little  place.  You  ought 
to  go  and  see  it — wooden  gate,  flag-stoned  pathway 
to  front  door;  trees — an  ilex  at  the  side,  hollyhocks  and 
that  sort  of  things  in  front — crimson  ramblers — you 
know;  trees  and  flowers  behind,  lawn  with  acacia  tree  in 
the  middle,  awfully  nice  to  sit  under  it  for  tea,  lots  of 
trees  all  over  the  place,  and  through  a  gate  with  creaking 


Miss  Fingal  35 

iron  hinges — Linda  used  to  swing  on  it  when  she  was  a 
kid.  At  the  side  of  the  garden  there's  an  orchard " 

"The  boys  used  to  steal  uncle  John's  apples,"  she 
said,  remembering  Sir  James's  remark.  "That  was  why 
he  put  up  barbed  wire." 

"Dare  say  they  enjoyed  them  more  than  he  did." 

"I  shall  take  down  the  barbed  wire.  I  shouldn't  like 
them  to  be  hurt." 

"Rather  immoral  to  encourage  stealing,  of  course, 
but  also  rather  nice  of  you."  He  stared  at  her  benevo- 
lently, and  explained.  "I  am  taking  a  good  look  at 
you — rather  short-sighted,  you  know;  take  a  good  look 
at  me,  then  one  of  us  will  be  sure  to  know  the  other 
next  time." 

She  looked  up  and  saw  a  fair  young  man,  tall  and 
loose-limbed  (though  this  was  not  discernible  at  table), 
with  a  good-natured  face,  a  rather  wide  mouth,  lank  fair 
hair,  and  blue  eyes  that  smiled  behind  pince-nez. 

"I  have  looked  at  you,"  she  told  him  with  a  demure 
smile. 

"Well  then,  now  let's  get  on  with  our  talk.  Briar- 
patch " 

"Briarpatch?" 

"Didn't  you  read  'Uncle  Remus'  when  you  were 
young?" 

"No,  I  was  always  at  school." 

"Ah — of  course,  they  never  do  anything  sensible  at 
school.  Some  aristocratic  but  impecunious  relations  of 
my  stepmother's  had  your  cottage,  bought  it  and  rebuilt 
it  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  christened  it  for  them  out  of 
'Uncle  Remus.'  Your  uncle  only  bought  it  about  a  year 
ago,  when  Linda  Alliston  came  to  grief."  He  stopped 
for  a  moment.  "We  used  to  slide  on  the  pond  together 
when  she  was  a  kid.  There's  a  highly  respectable  pond 
— skating  in  the  winter — can  you  skate?"  he  asked,  with 
a  twinkle. 

"I  don't  know."  He  made  a  laughing  grimace  at  her. 
"I  never  tried,"  she  added  hastily. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  like  a  father,  if  you 
don't  mind,"  he  said.  "You  should  learn  to  do  things 
— everything  that  comes  your  way — chuck  away  those 


36  Miss  Fingal 

you  don't  like  and  stick  to  those  you  do;  it's  the  only 
way  to  enjoy  life." 

"Is  it?"    She  looked  up  questioningly. 

"It  is."    He  solemnly  nodded  his  head. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin,"  she  said,  with  a  queer 
little  smile  as  she  got  up  from  her  seat,  "but  I  shall 
think  about  what  you  have  said — and  you  are  very  kind," 
she  added,  to  his  suprise.  She  was  grateful  to  him  for 
talking  to  her;  he  felt  it  and  liked  her.  "But  she  is  a 
little  stick-in-the-mud,"  he  thought.  "A  few  shocks 
would  do  her  good." 

Later,  when  he  saw  her  sitting  silent  and  apart  in  the 
drawing-room,  he  went  up  to  her;  but  she  had  no  small- 
talk.  "Look  here,"  he  said  in  despair,  as  he  got  up  to 
go,  for  he  had  a  lively  supper  engagement,  "will  you 
let  me  come  and  see  you  some  day?" 

"I  should  like  it  very  much,"  she  answered  without 
much  cordiality,  though  she  felt  that  she  would  like  him 
to  come. 

"She's  no  good — can't  get  out  of  her  native  shell,  it 
sticks  to  her,"  he  thought. 

"My  dear,"  Mrs.  Bendish  said  to  her  husband  that 
night,  "I'm  sorry  for  your  heiress;  but  she  is  a  dull 
little  thing,  there's  nothing  to  be  done  with  her." 

He  was  busy  with  his  papers  and  answered  absently, 
"Then  leave  her  alone.  It  can't  be  helped." 

A  week  or  two  later  Miss  Fingal  heard  that  the 
Bendish  child  was  ill.  She  had  never  known  any 
children,  and  was  somehow  afraid  of  them;  but  she  sent 
it  a  beautiful  orange  tree,  and  wrote  a  formal  sym- 
pathetic little  note  that  brought  a  grateful  mother  round 
the  next  day.  But  she  only  looked  dismayed,  and  said 
as  if  she  were  apologising,  "It's  very  kind  of  you  to 
come.  I  thought  perhaps  she'd  like  an  orange  tree." 

"Of  course  she  did,  and  it  was  so  lovely  of  you  to 
think  of  it,  not  to  send  cut  flowers,  as  most  people  do 
when  they  want  to  send  something." 

Miss  Fingal  was  silent  for  a  moment  before  she  added, 
"You  see  the  weather  is  rather  cold,  and  I  thought  it 
would  make  her  think  of  Italy  and  warm  places  where 
oranges  grow." 


Miss  Fingal  37 

"How  nice  of  you;  that  would  never  have  occurred 
to  any  one  else.  Have  you  been  much  to  Italy?" 

"No;  I  never  went  there  at  all — or  anywhere." 

"But  you  will?" 

"Yes,  perhaps."  Then,  in  a  tone  that  was  almost 
like  a  suppressed  longing:  "I  want  to  see  all  the  things 
— I  mean  the  beautiful  things — that  people  made  for  the 
world  hundreds  of  years  ago." 

Mrs.  Bendish  was  quite  surprised.  "What  a  queer 
idea !  I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way — I  always  live 
in  the  future  and  look  forward,  and  never  trouble  about 
hundreds  of  years  ago." 

"I  feel  as  if  they  were  reaching  out  sometimes,"  Miss 
Fingal  answered,  "as  if  I  could  see  and  hear  things  that 
happened  in  them.  It  isn't  that  I  think  of  them — they 
come  and  go  when  my  eyes  are  shut,  just  for  a  moment, 
but  only  since  I  came  to  this  house." 

"It  is  a  rather  ghostly  place,  and  I  expect  you  are  a 
good  deal  alone?" 

"Oh  yes;  but  I  have  always  been  alone." 

"I  should  like  to  cheer  up  this  room."  Mrs.  Bendish 
looked  round  it.  "Some  loose  covers — a  gay  chintz, 
you  know,  and  heaps  of  cushions,  would  do  wonders 
for  it.  In  fact,  I  should  like  to  do  up  the  whole  house — 
to  alter  it.  You  must  be  very  dull  sometimes." 

"Oh  no,  I  am  not  dull,  and  it  is  very  restful  to  wait 
between." 

"To  wait  between  what?" 

"The  things  that  happen.  There  is  always  a  time 
between.  Don't  you  think  that  life  is  like  a  story  in 
chapters,  one  chapter  begins  and  goes  on  and  ends — 
quite  ends ;  and  then  another  begins  and  goes  on  and 
ends,  and  they're  all  different." 

Mrs.  Bendish  looked  at  her  and  was  puzzled;  the 
placid  expression  of  the  face  had  not  changed,  the  grey 
eyes  looked  back  at  her  questionly,  but  calmly. 

"How  have  your  chapters  been  divided?"  she  asked. 

Miss  Fingal  thought  for  a  moment  before  she  answered. 
"There  was  the  one  at  school,  it  was  full  of  things  to 
do  that  were  not  very  interesting;  but  I  suppose  they 
had  to  be  done  and  learnt." 


38  Miss  Fingal 

"Yes?" 

"It  was  like  a  first  chapter.  And  then  the  one  with 
my  father.  That  went  on  for  two  years.  He  died,  and 
that  came  to  an  end."  She  lifted  her  anxious  face  and 
added,  "It  was  very  sad,  for  I  don't  think  he  was  happy, 
and  it  made  him  complain  of  the  world." 

"And  then?" 

"I  went  to  Battersea:  that  one  was  eight  years  long." 

"Were  you  dreadfully  bored?" 

"No — it  was  so  peaceful,  and  it  was  more  cheerful 
than  this,  for  there  was  a  balcony  to  stand  on  and  I 
could  look  at  the  Park.  I  think  I  used  to  feel  as 
if  I  were  resting  after  a  long  journey  that  I  didn't 
remember." 

"But  surely  you  hated  Battersea?" 

"No,  I  liked  it.  I  felt  so  apart,  and  it  was  interesting 
to  look  at  the  people  and  to  wonder  about  them.  I  shall 
never  see  that  bit  of  the  world  again." 

"It  ended  too?" 

"Yes,  quite  suddenly  one  morning,  when  the  letter 
came  from  Mr.  Bendish,  saying  that  uncle  John  was 
dead." 

"But  weren't  you  delighted — I  mean " 

"I  was  very  sorry,  though  I  never  knew  him  well 
or  thought  about  him  much." 

"And  the  next  chapter?" 

"That  is  going  on,  and  I  don't  know  how  it  will  end, 
or  what  it  means.  But  you  see  it  all  divides,  and  is 
very  interesting,  just  as  I  said." 

"Yes,  it's  very  interesting,"  Mrs.  Bendish  echoed,  and 
got  up  to  go.  She  felt  that  the  visit  had  been  a 
success. 

"I  liked  her  better  than  I  did  before,  perhaps  because 
of  the  orange  tree,"  she  told  her  husband;  "but  there 
was  something  almost  uncanny  about  her  when  she 
spoke  of  hundreds  of  years  ago — I  felt  as  if  she  had 
lived  then  and  left  her  soul  behind  when  she  came  on." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  soul." 

"One  feels  many  things  of  which  one  doesn't  know 
the  meaning." 

"You've    been    talking   to    Linda    Alliston,"    he    said 


Miss  Fingal  39 

impatiently.  "This  sounds  like  her  stuff,  poor  thing. 
When  did  you  see  her  last?" 

"To-day,"  Mrs.   Bendish  confessed. 

"Ah,  I  thought  so!     How  is  she?" 

"She  looked  dreadfully  ill.  I  believe  she  is  breaking 
her  heart." 

"I  saw  Alliston  the  other  day — he's  a  good-looking 
dog — it's  a  pity  that  such  a  really  nice  chap  couldn't  do 
better  with  life." 


VIII. 

THE  autumn  months  dragged  on;  Miss  Fingal  accepted 
their  greyness  as  inevitable,  though  sometimes  a  little 
dreary  smile  came  to  her  lips  when  she  looked  at  the 
sedate  boundaries  of  Bedford  Square  and  remembered 
the  distances  that  had  filled  her  eyes  so  often  in  the 
bygone  years.  She  saw  Mr.  Bendish  once  or  twice; 
he  was  reinvesting  her  money  and  putting  her  affairs  in 
order,  but  she  took  little  interest  in  them  herself.  His 
wife  had  gone  to  the  south  of  England  with  their  delicate 
children,  so  there  were  no  more  invitations  to  dinner  or 
afternoon  visits  from  her.  Sir  James  Gilston  appeared 
one  morning,  feeling,  as  he  put  it  to  Mr.  Bendish,  that — 
"Fingal  treated  us  handsomely,  you  know,  and  we 
ought  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  heiress,  for  the  first  year  or 
so,  at  any  rate."  She  was  glad  to  see  him;  he  was  easy 
to  get  on  with,  and  his  vulgarity  was  not  offensive. 

"Pretty  comfortable?"  he  asked.  Properly  grieved 
for  the  uncle  and  not  chuckling  too  openly  over  his  will  ? 
I  wish  we  were  in  town;  Lady  Gilston  thinks  it  the 
right  thing  to  stay  in  the  country  at  this  time  of  year, 
so  I'm  bound  to  stick  it  too.  She'll  tell  a  different  tale 
soon,  when  Dorothy  comes  out;  and  as  she's  sixteen, 
it  won't  be  long.  I  come  up  two  or  three  times  a  week 
to  see  they  are  all  right  at  the  office.  Doesn't  do  to 
slacken  too  much;  things  run  down  if  the  boss  doesn't 
keep  them  wound  up.  I  get  a  bit  bored  too  at  Waver- 
combe;  there's  some  shooting,  but  others  find  more  fun 
in  it  than  I  do.  We  have  a  little  farm  close  to  our 
place,  across  the  field.  I  get  something  out  of  that — 
pleasure,  I  mean,  for  it  doesn't  pay  yet,  though  we've 
done  pretty  well  with  pigs  and  milk.  My  lady  takes  an 

40 


Miss  Fingal  41 

interest  in  the  dairy,  so  that's  all  right.  By  the  way, 
I  hear  you  met  Jimmy  at  the  Bendish  dinner-party. 
What  did  you  think  of  him?" 

"He  was  very  kind." 

"Oh!"  Sir  James  was  rather  puzzled  at  this  answer. 
"He  said  he  offered  to  take  you  to  a  music-hall,  but  you 
wouldn't  go."  He  considered  for  a  moment,  looked  at 
her,  stroked  his  nose,  and  went  on  suddenly:  "He  isn't 
brilliant,  a  bit  idle,  but  a  good  chap.  I  wish  he'd  settle 
down  with  a  wife  who'd  keep  him  in  order." 

"Perhaps  he  doesn't  want  to  be  kept  in  order." 

"Dare  say;  we  none  of  us  care  about  it — do  we? — but 
it  would  be  good  for  him.  Well,  you  won't  see  me  again 
just  yet.  We  start  for  Montreux  to-morrow,  staying 
there  over  Christmas.  We  shall  send  for  the  two  school- 
girls from  Lausanne,  for  the  holidays.  I'll  come  and 
see  you  as  soon  as  I'm  back.  By  the  way,  young  lady, 
Bendish  tells  me  you've  drawn  a  good  deal  of  cash 
lately?" 

"I  wanted  it,"  she  answered. 

"But  you've  not  paid  away  any  cheques — taken  it  all 
in  cash?" 

"I  didn't  want  to  send  cheques  with  my  name  on." 

"Not  been  speculating?  You  see  we  are  in  charge 
of  your  interests  for  the  present,  so  I  ought  to  look  after 
you  a  bit." 

"I've  not  been  speculating,"  she  answered  coldly. 

He  persisted,  for  he  had  so  little  control  over  his  own 
family  that  he  enjoyed  trying  to  exercise  some  over  his 
ward.  "I'm  afraid,  my  dear  young  lady,  just  as  a 
matter  of  duty,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  for  what  purpose 
you  wanted  these  rather  large  sums." 

"It's  my  own  money,"  she  pleaded.  "I  thought  I 
could  spend  it  as  I  liked." 

"Of  course,  but  your  sex  is  easily  imposed  upon. 
Any  poor  relations  you  want  to  help?"  She  shook  her 
head.  "Charity  is  often  a  mistake — unless  you  know 
what  you're  about." 

"It  isn't  charity  to  give  to  people  who  need  it.  I 
tried  to  do  that — but  I  didn't  want  them  to  know  or 
to  be  thanked." 


42  Miss  Fingal 

"You  should  make  inquiries — there  are  so  many 
impostors." 

"I  would  rather  take  my  chance  of  that,"  she  an- 
swered, "than  hurt  people  who  are  not  impostors — 
besides,  impostors  feel  pain  just  as  other  people  do. 
Please  let  me  do  what  I  like,  Sir  James,  and  don't  ask 
me  about  it."  She  looked  up  at  him,  the  soft  eyes 
shaded  by  the  dark  lashes  were  effective. 

"Didn't  know  they  were  so  good,"  he  thought. 
"Well,  of  course,"  he  said,  "you  must  do  as  you 
please,  and  it's  very  good  of  you.  I  make  a  point  of  only 
giving  to  recognised  institutions  and  popular  move- 
ments myself,  and  of  seeing  it  properly  acknowledged 
in  print.  I'm  a  great  believer  in  print,  keeps  things 
above  board;  but  ladies,  especially  young  ones  and  rich 
as  you  are,  like  their  own  way,  eh?  Now  good-bye. 
See  you  when  we  come  back.  Lady  Gilston  has  been 
hoping  to  make  your  acquaintance  before  we  went,  but 
she  hasn't  had  a  moment  to  spare  when  she  has  been 
in  town."  He  looked  back  as  he  was  going,  with — 
"Mind  you  run  down  and  see  the  cottage.  Mark  of 
respect  to  the  uncle,  besides,  it  looks  now  as  if  you  were 
a  London  sparrow."  He  was  growing  more  familiar, 
and  had  an  idea  that  a  slightly  hilarious  manner  would 
wake  her  up  a  bit.  "We  shan't  be  there  again  just  yet, 
probably  not  till  Easter;  but  there  are  lots  of  nice 
people  in  the  neighbourhood  at  Wavercombe — residen- 
tial people — who  will  be  certain  to  call  on  you.  I've 
told  them  all  about  you,"  he  added  with  the  air  of  a 
benefactor. 

She  went  two  days  later.  "Just  for  a  week  or  ten 
days,"  she  informed  Mrs.  Turner,  thinking  that  people 
would  hardly  know  she  was  there  if  she  stayed  so 
short  a  time;  she  wanted  to  avoid  the  callers  as  long 
as  possible. 

Wavercombe  was  a  quiet  little  place,  with  a  sleepy 
station.  When  she  arrived  it  looked  desolate,  and  a 
drizzling  November  rain  was  falling.  Luckily  there  was 
a  fly  waiting  outside — Stimson,  who  had  gone  the  day 
before,  had  seen  to  that.  It  was  open,  but  with  the 


Miss  Fingal  43 

hood  pulled  down  well  over  her  head,  and  a  thick  leather 
apron  dragged  high  up  in  front,  she  was  sheltered. 
Outside  the  station  a  roadway,  still  in  the  making,  led 
to  what  might  in  the  future  be  the  main  street  of  a 
little  town.  Along  it,  with  a  strip  of  new  asphalt  pave- 
ment in  front  of  them,  were  a  few  shops,  struggling  to 
look  prosperous;  a  bookseller's  with  the  word  Bazaar 
above  it,  and  a  poulterer's  with  a  row  of  birds  hung 
across  the  outside,  suggested  what  Sir  James  had  called 
residential  people.  And  of  these  there  were  other  evi- 
dences: protected  by  screens  of  trees  or  closed  gates, 
were  dwelling-houses  of  the  sort  that  signified  retirement 
and  a  good  income.  In  the  distance  a  large  house  with 
a  square  tower  could  be  seen.  As  if  holding  aloof  from 
the  more  prosperous,  and  yet  waiting  near  on  the  chance 
of  usefulness,  were  a  few  picturesque  cottages  with 
gardens  in  front;  and  here  and  there  an  isolated  one, 
looking  as  if  it  had  strayed  onwards  towards  the  country- 
side that  looked  dull  and  grey. 

In  the  summer  it  all  would  be  different,  Miss  Fingal 
thought,  but  even  now  it  appealed  to  her  in  an  unim- 
aginative way.  She  could  see  the  Surrey  hills  in  the 
distance,  pathetic  and  misty,  waiting  for  the  spring  to 
wrap  them  in  the  blue  that  was  their  own,  and  presently 
in  the  foreground  was  the  darkness  of  a  fir  wood.  Oh 
yes,  it  would  look  quite  different  in  the  spring,  she  told 
herself  again ;  she  had  come  too  soon — but  it  didn't 
matter.  .  .  .  The  old  cob  ambled  on.  Some  clumps  of 
gorse,  brown  and  dead,  some  withered  heather  and  leaf- 
less trees,  and  then  a  stretch  of  well-kept  road,  with 
gravel  for  future  use  heaped  on  one  side  of  it,  and  on 
the  other  a  high  wall  that  reached  to  gates  of  beauti- 
fully wrought  iron;  then  more  wall  with  brown  twigs 
of  creeper  wandering  over  it  that  suggested  a  garden 
behind;  against  the  green-edged  footway  by  the  road- 
side there  were  one  or  two  benches  for  tired  wayfarers. 
She  leant  forward  and  could  see  the  top  windows  of  a. 
large  house,  set  back  from  the  road  and  approached  by 
a  short  avenue  of  beeches. 

"Who  lives  at  this  place?"  she  asked. 

"That's     Beechwood —  Sir     James     Gilston's.       They 


44  Miss  Fingal 

brought  them  gates  from  Italy  two  years  ago  and  had  a 
deal  of  bother  to  get  them  up.  They're  away  now,  gone 
abroad  for  a  bit." 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  the  road  forked  and  on  one 
side  was  a  long  narrow  pond.  It  must  be  the  one  Jimmy 
Gilston  spoke  of,  she  thought,  as  being  good  for  skaters. 
It  looked  leaden  and  resentful  now  in  the  falling  rain; 
at  its  abrupt  end  there  was  a  high  bank,  a  clump  of  trees, 
almost  a  copse,  and  beyond  them  a  green  with  a  few 
cottages  huddled  in  one  corner.  Across  the  green  a 
little  shop,  a  post-office,  a  rustic  inn  called  The  Dragon's 
Teeth;  and  then  set  back  and  apart,  with  a  wooden 
paling  and  tall  trees  looking  over  it  within  and  without, 
a  garden  winding  backwards  on  one  side  and  an  orchard 
on  the  other,  was  the  cottage.  A  white  gate  with  Briar- 
patch  painted  in  black  letters  on  its  top  rail,  a  flagged 
pathway  with  flower-beds  on  either  side  and  more  trees, 
an  ilex-tree,  and  thick  growths  entwining  and  clustering 
towards  the  boundaries.  The  white  front  door  was  open, 
Stimson  and  a  middle-aged  woman  in  black  came  out  to 
meet  her.  Stimson  said,  "This  is  Mrs.  Webb,  miss." 
The  woman  added,  "Pleased  to  see  you,  miss.  I'll  do 
all  I  can  to  make  you  comfortable,"  and  Miss  Fingal 
realised  that  she  had  arrived  at  her  own  place — another 
place  where  she  was  the  all-important  owner.  She 
smiled  as  she  entered  a  small  square  hall,  warmed  by  a 
wood  fire  that  lighted  up  the  brass  dogs  on  its  red-brick 
hearth.  Through  the  open  door  on  the  left  a  cheery 
room  seemed  to  welcome  her.  It  had  a  crackling  wood 
fire,  too,  and  chintz  covers  of  the  sort  that  Mrs.  Bendish 
had  suggested  for  Bedford  Square,  and  a  small  and  very 
low  revolving  bookcase  full  of  new-looking  books  that 
could  be  reached  from  the  easy-chair  by  the  fireside. 
Even  in  that  first  moment  she  felt  that  it  was  a  blessedly 
different  place  from  the  one  with  which  uncle  John  was 
identified  in  London — a  place  to  be  happy  in,  to  live  in, 
with  no  haunting  memories  of  dead  people. 

She  unfastened  her  coat.  "Emma  will  take  it" — a 
tall  thin  girl  in  a  stiff  white  cap  and  apron  came 
forward — "my  niece,"  Mrs.  Webb  explained,  "she 
always  helped  when  Mr.  Fingal  came,  and  before 


Miss  Fingal  45 

that,"  she  added.  "You'll  be  longing  for  a  cup  of  tea, 
miss?" 

Emma  took  the  coat  and,  by  shaking  up  the  silk 
cushions  in  the  chair  by  the  fire,  invited  Miss  Fingal 
to  sit  down.  Mrs.  Webb  brought  in  some  tea,  and  then 
the  new  arrival  was  mercifully  left  to  her  own  reflections. 
She  heard  Stimson  go  upstairs,  and  knew  that  he  was 
carrying  the  suit-case  and  dressing-bag  that  was  all  her 
luggage,  and  she  wondered,  for  dependants  still  embar- 
rassed her,  what  she  ought  to  do  next,  what  was  expected 
of  her,  and  felt  shy  of  moving  without  a  sign  from  some 
one  who  would  unconsciously  give  her  a  lead.  Presently 
it  came  in  the  shape  of  Mrs.  Webb,  who  returned  and 
suggested  that  perhaps  Miss  Fingal  would  like  to  see 
her  room. 

It  was  obviously  the  best  room;  it  looked  fresh,  but 
sleepy  and  curiously  patient,  as  if  it  were  waiting  for 
some  one  to  come  and  claim  it.  There  were  casement 
windows  with  flowered  chintz  curtains  to  them,  and  a 
low  brass  bedstead  with  a  blue  silk  eider-down — she  gave 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction  when  she  saw  it,  and  remembered 
the  four-poster  in  which  she  had  slept  last  night.  Near 
the  window  there  was  a  little  inlaid  escritoire,  open,  with 
two  brass  candlesticks  and  candles,  and  dainty  writing 
apparatus;  above  it  a  row  of  attractive-looking  books. 
On  the  hearth  a  wood  fire  crackled  and  blazed,  and  beside 
it  hung  a  little  old-fashioned  polished  wooden  bellows 
with  a  brass  nozzle. 

"It's  such  a  very  nice  room,"  she  said  with  a  happy 
taken-by-surprise  look  on  her  face. 

"Yes,  miss.  And  that,"  she  nodded  to  a  door  facing 
the  windows,  "was  Mr.  Alliston's  dressing-room.  It 
looks  on  to  the  lawn  at  the  back.  You  can't  see  it  this 
weather,  but  it's  lovely  in  the  summer.  They  used  to 
be  out  there  a  good  deal." 

"They?" 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alliston,  I  mean,  miss.  This  used  to 
be  Mrs.  Alliston's  when  she  was  here,  before  Mr.  Fingal 
had  the  cottage,  and  it's  just  as  she  left  it.  Perhaps 
you  know  her,  miss?" 

"No?"    There  was  a  question  in  the  voice,  and  Mrs. 


46  Miss  Fingal 

Webb  responded  quickly,  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
a  story  to  tell. 

"You  see,  miss,  the  cottage  belonged  to  Lady  Gil- 
ston's  cousin,  Lady  Hester  Markham.  When  Miss 
Linda,  that  was  her  daughter,  married  Mr.  Alliston, 
Lady  Hester  gave  it  them  and  went  abroad  herself. 
I  did  hear  that  she  lost  a  lot  of  money  gambling  in 
France,  and  couldn't  come  back,  but  you  never  can 
tell." 

"And  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alliston  lived  here?" 

"Well,  they  were  up  and  down.  Mr.  Alliston  didn't 
care  for  Wavercombe.  There  were  no  links  near,  and 
he  was  a  great  one  for  golf,  and  I  don't  think  he  liked 
Lady  Gilston,  and  she  invited  them  there  a  good  deal. 
Sir  James  used  to  come  and  fetch  them,  so  they  couldn't 
help  themselves." 

Miss  Fingal  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire 
listening  to  the  history  of  the  cottage  that  was  hers 
now.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  to  hear  it;  but  it  was 
a  little  confusing.  Mrs.  Webb  was  quite  ready  to  go  on. 
"It  was  Mrs.  Alliston  who  made  the  place  what  it  is. 
Mr.  Alliston  didn't  care  for  the  gentry  round,  though 
they're  very  nice,  miss,  so  they  brought  down  their  own 
visitors  from  London.  They  were  happy,  I  can  tell  you. 
They  thought  the  world  of  each  other  and  used  to  laugh 
for  joy,  and  run  in  and  out  of  the  trees  in  the  orchard 
and  all  that,  but  it  only  lasted  a  little  while.  .  .  .  Then 
Mr.  Alliston  used  to  go  to  London,  and  Mrs.  Alliston 
stayed  here  alone — and  he'd  come  for  week-ends — then 
he  didn't  come  at  all,  or  only  seldom." 

"I  see,"  very  coldly.  She  did  not  want  to  hear  more 
about  the  Allistons  from  Mrs.  Webb. 

Mrs.  Webb  was  rather  disappointed  at  the  seeming 
lack  of  interest  in  her  listener,  but  went  on  undaunted. 
"Mr.  Alliston  behaved  badly,  and  they  were  separated — 
it  just  broke  Mrs.  Alliston's  heart — and  the  cottage  was 
sold  to  Mr.  Fingal.  Before  that  Mr.  Fingal  used  to  take 
the  Vicarage  every  September,  but  he  didn't  like  it,  be- 
cause there  were  texts  over  the  washstands,  and  he 
didn't  approve  of  any  fuss  made  with  religion." 

"Was  he  here  much?" 


Miss  Fingal  47 

"Oh  no,  miss,  only  now  and  then,  by  fits  and  starts. 
You  see,  he  died,  poor  gentleman." 

"Did  he  sleep  in  this  room?"  She  couldn't  imagine 
uncle  John  doing  that,  or  reading  the  books,  or  sitting 
at  the  escritoire. 

"No,  miss,"  and  then,  as  if  she  divined  what  had  been 
in  her  listener's  mind,  Mrs.  Webb  added,  "and  he  didn't 
touch  a  thing  he  could  help — he  wasn't  one  for  altering, 
and  he  liked  the  room  looking  out  on  the  orchard.  All 
the  rooms  are  just  as  Mrs.  Alliston  left  them.  He 
bought  the  cottage,  but  he  never  altered  anything  in 
it.  Would  you  like  Emma  to  come  and  help  you 
presently?  She's  a  handy  girl,  and  can  do  a  bit  of 
maiding." 

Miss  Fingal  shook  her  head.  "No,  thank  you;  but  I 
should  like  to  rest  a  little  while — if  I  may,"  she  added 
meekly,  still  unused  to  so  much  attention. 

"Yes,  miss,  of  course  you  would — and  I  must  see  to 
your  dinner.  Mr.  Stimson  was  very  particular  about 
ordering  it." 

The  door  was  shut,  and  the  new  owner  of  the  cottage 
sat  very  still  by  the  fire,  thinking  of  Linda  Alliston.  She 
had  not  heard  much  about  her,  only  of  her  happiness 
and  a  hint  of  tragedy,  but  vaguely,  mistily,  as  if  in  a 
dream,  details  seemed  to  fill  themselves  in. 

"It's  the  second  young  couple  I  have  come  across," 
she  thought.  "There  was  the  one  at  the  flat — I  wish 
I  could  see  them  without  their  knowing  it — and  now 
there  is  this  one  that  I  have  never  seen  at  all;  yet  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  so  near  their  lives."  It  almost  hurt 
her  to  think  they  had  had  to  give  up  the  cottage.  She 
felt  as  if  she  ought  to  give  it  back  to  them,  and  wondered 
if  anything  could  give  them  back  their  happiness.  It 
was  strange  that  people  who  loved  each  other  and  were 
happy,  should  part  and  be  miserable.  "They  must  like 
having  the  happiness  to  remember,"  she  told  herself; 
but  it  all  belonged  to  that  part  of  the  world  in  which 
she  had  no  share. 

She  heard  the  drip-drip  of  the  rain  outside,  falling  on 
the  garden.  The  outward  darkness  shrouded  the  trees 
and  stole  into  the  room,  that  seemed  to  feel  in  itself  a 


48  Miss  Fingal 

strangeness  that  she  should  be  there.  But  there  was 
nothing  ghostly  about  it.  This  cottage  was  remembered 
by  living  people ;  it  seemed  to  belong  to  them  still,  rather 
than  to  her,  or  than  it  had  to  uncle  John.  She  felt  as  if 
she  were  in  charge  of  it,  as  if  it  were  a  trust.  She  smiled 
dreamily  at  the  smouldering  wood. 

"I  think  it  would  be  beautiful  to  see  them  here 
again,"  she  said  to  herself,  while  she  made  ready  for 
her  little  dinner;  and  afterwards,  while  she  was  seated 
at  the  table,  at  which  they  had  sat  only  two  or  three 
years  ago,  she  imagined  them  looking  across  it  with 
happy  faces  and  laughing  for  joy. 


IX. 


IT  rained  intermittently  during  the  first  three  days  of 
her  visit.  The  countryside  was  shrouded  in  mist,  the 
grey  sky  stooped  over  the  grey  pond  and  the  sodden 
green;  and  the  fact  that  Webb's  father,  who  lived 
twenty  miles  off,  was  ill  and  sent  for  him,  prevented 
Miss  Fingal  from  taking  an  active  interest  in  the  garden. 
She  went  for  a  walk  every  day:  with  human  beings  she 
felt  lonely  and  apart,  but  as  she  tramped  the  damp  roads 
or  gently  pushed  through  the  brier-obstructed  by-ways, 
she  felt  as  if  the  drooping  lindens  and  dark  firs,  and  the 
dim  hills  in  the  distance,  drew  her  towards  them  with 
an  indefinite  magnetism — not  with  any  realised  satisfac- 
tion but  as  an  atom  belonging  to  a  whole. 

After  the  first  evening  she  did  not  think  much  about 
the  Allistons.  It  was  as  if  memories  of  them,  lingering 
in  the  cottage,  had  come  forth  on  her  arrival  and  then 
adjusted  themselves  to  later  happenings.  When  it  was 
impossible  to  go  out  she  sat  by  the  fire  reading  the 
books  near  at  hand  in  the  revolving  bookcase,  or  looked 
out  at  the  dripping  orchard  and  up  at  the  tall  trees 
beyond,  with  a  sense  of  wonderment  at  knowing  they 
were  hers,  that  she  was  among  them  and  would  probably 
see  them  at  intervals  all  her  life  long.  It  pleased  her 
to  think  it.  The  stillness,  the  freshness  and  charm  of 
her  surrounding,  saturated  her  with  a  calm  contentment 
that  was  a  blessed  surprise,  a  codicil,  a  postscript,  added 
to  uncle  John's  endowment.  It  came  to  an  end  one 
afternoon  when  a  motor  stopped  at  the  gate  and  Stimson 
hurriedly  appeared. 

"Sir  George  and  Lady  Francis  from  the  Tower  House 

49 


50  Miss  FingaJ 

are  at  the  door,  miss,"  and  a  minute  later,  in  an  im- 
pressive voice,  he  announced  them. 

They  entered  slowly.  Lady  Francis  was  a  kindly- 
looking  stout  lady  who,  when  she  had  smiled  and  got 
through  the  usual  greetings,  hesitated  before  the  chair 
on  which  she  was  about  to  sit — a  Rossetti  one  with  a 
rush  seat  and  thin  arms. 

"I  am  not  sure — "  she  began. 

Miss  Fingal  understood.  "Oh,  but  do  sit  here,"  she 
indicated  an  easier  and  stronger  one,  with  a  silk  cushion 
at  its  back.  Then,  with  benevolent  graciousness,  the 
visitors  began  their  talk. 

Sir  George,  a  red-faced  gentleman  with  a  white  mous- 
tache, who  filled  in  his  remarks  when  at  a  loss  for  a 
word  with  a  swift  glance  round,  as  if  he  were  searching 
for  it,  and  a  little  grunt  to  signify  that  he  had  found  it, 
explained  that  they  had  felt  that  they  must  come  and 
see  her  as  soon  as  possible.  Lady  Francis  added 
they  had  been  so  sorry  to  hear  of  the  loss  she  had 
suffered  in  her  uncle;  but  they  hoped  she  would  find 
many  friends  at  Wavercombe;  Mrs.  Derrick  of  the 
Mount — they  had  just  been  there — had  remarked  that 
she  looked  forward  so  much  to  calling  in  a  day  or  two. 

It  was  very  kind  of  everybody,  Miss  Fingal  answered 
in  the  soft  clear  voice  that  always  struck  her  hearers 
pleasantly.  Sir  George  gave  a  little  nod  to  himself  to 
show  that  he  approved  of  it. 

Wavercombe  was  a  lovely  place  in  summer,  they 
assured  her;  there  were  such  nice  people  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  many  tennis  parties.  Their  daughter  had 
been  devoted  to  tennis  before  she  was  married,  and 
quite  a  champion.  Eight  years  ago  she  had  won  a  cup 
at  Farnham.  Was  Miss  Fingal  a  tennis-player? 

No,  she  had  never  played  tennis,  she  didn't  know  how. 

They  were  much  surprised.  Perhaps  she  preferred 
croquet?  It  had  come  into  favour  again  of  late  years. 

No,  she  didn't  play  croquet. 

They  were  rather  damped  and  paused  for  a  minute. 
Then  Sir  George  made  an  attempt.  Did  she  remember 
how  angry  her  uncle  had  been  when  the  boys  stole  his 
apples?  He  had  put  up  a  great  deal  of  barbed  wire  to 


Miss  Fingal  51 

keep  them  out.  Lady  Francis  added  quickly  that  it  had 
amused  Sir  George,  for  Mr.  Fingal  was  so  very  angry; 
Sir  George  gave  a  low  growling  laugh  to  illustrate  how 
much  he  had  been  amused. 

They  changed  the  subject.  Was  she  going  to  stay 
over  Christmas?  There  was  generally  some  carol-singing 
in  the  church  on  Boxing  Day  afternoon.  If  she  went  to 
it  she  must  come  to  tea  afterwards  at  the  Tower  House; 
the  church  was  on  the  way  to  it. 

No,  she  wasn't  going  to  stay  over  Christmas,  but  they 
were  very  kind  to  ask  her. 

They  were  sorry.  They  made  a  point  of  going  them- 
selves, for  Mr.  Randall,  the  vicar,  was  a  great  friend. 
Had  she  seen  him?  He  was  such  a  good  man,  so 
devoted  to  his  sister,  who  was  a  cripple,  owing  to  a 
severe  fall  she  had  a  good  many  years  ago.  She  didn't 
live  here  but  in  Chiswick,  quite  near  London.  They 
went  to  see  her  sometimes  when  they  went  up  in  the 
spring;  it  pleased  her  so,  poor  thing.  She  knew  nine 
different  games  of  patience.  Did  Miss  Fingal  play 
patience?  It  was  an  excellent  resource  when  you  were 
alone. 

No,  Miss  Fingal  had  never  played  patience,  but  she 
was  very  sorry  for  the  vicar's  sister.  She  looked  a  little 
vague  as  she  said  it,  and  after  a  few  more  remarks  they 
rose  to  go. 

Lady  Francis  considerately  said  that  she  believed  Miss 
Fingal  hadn't  anything  to  drive,  and  she  mustn't  think 
of  coming  till  the  weather  was  better,  for  it  was  some 
distance — a  mile  and  a  half  beyond  the  station,  and,  Sir 
George  added,  "a  bad  road  too." 

Miss  Fingal  said  it  was  very  thoughtful  of  them,  and 
if  she  might,  she  would  return  their  visit  next  time  she 
came,  for  she  didn't  think  she  was  going  to  stay  long 
now. 

They  agreed  with  alacrity  and  departed.  Sir  George 
gave  a  grunt  as  they  moved  on  in  their  comfortable  car. 
"Fingal  ought  to  have  found  a  prettier  woman  to  spend 
his  money,"  he  said.  "She  looks  as  if  she  might  hoard 
it.  We  must  put  Randall  up  to  getting  something  out 
of  her." 


52  Miss  Fingal 

Miss  Fingal  went  for  a  walk  to  forget  them,  and 
wondered  if  any  one  else  would  come. 

One  or  two  more  did,  chiefly  out  of  curiosity,  and 
because  her  fortune  had  been  exaggerated,  and  the 
acquaintance  of  an  heiress  and  a  fairly  young  one  was 
an  excitement  not  to  be  forgone. 

Mrs.  Derrick  appeared  a  day  or  two  later,  in  a  white 
motor-car,  and  brought  a  nephew  with  her.  She  was 
tall  and  slightly  deaf,  with  square  shoulders  on  which  a 
sable  cape  rested,  well  open  in  front  to  show  some 
beautiful  old  lace,  folded  across  her  wide  flat  chest. 
She  evidently  thought  herself  of  some  importance,  and 
that  it  gave  her  a  right  occasionally  to  be  rude.  She 
looked  at  Miss  Fingal  quickly  and  critically  through  her 
lorgnettes,  before  she  stated  that  she  had  come  a  long 
way  and  was  very  cold.  The  nephew,  Cyril  Batson, 
was  a  pale-faced  young  man  who  looked  rather  bored  and 
a  little  ashamed,  as  if  he  felt  that,  being  impecu- 
nious, he  had  been  brought  on  approbation  to  the 
heiress.  Luckily,  his  aunt  did  most  of  the  talking.  She 
ignored  the  late  John  Fingal,  and  spoke  of  the  roses  and 
the  lupins  in  the  cottage  garden  in  Lady  Hester  Mark- 
ham's  time — Lady  Hester  had  been  a  great  friend  of 
hers.  It  was  such  a  pity  she  lived  abroad,  but  she  had 
been  disappointed  in  Linda's  marriage — Mr.  Alliston  was 
a  curious  man,  he  had  been  meant  for  diplomacy  but 
disliked  it — she  ought  to  have  married  her  cousin,  Lord 
Stockton,  who  was  said  to  be  fond  of  her,  for  she  was 
very  pretty  and  had  charming  manners. 

"Delightful,"  chipped  in  the  nephew,  "and  so  clever"; 
whereupon  his  aunt  turned  upon  him  in  a  hawk-like 
manner. 

"You  liked  her,  Cyril,  because  she  listened  to  your 
poems."  And  then  remembering  the  object  she  had  in 
view,  she  explained  to  Miss  Fingal,  with  unconscious 
contempt,  that  her  nephew  was  a  poet  not  yet  appreci- 
ated, but,  no  doubt,  he  would  be  famous  in  time — 
"When  he's  dead,  perhaps,"  she  added  with  a  snap. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not — "  Miss  Fingal  stopped  in  dismay, 
not  knowing  how  to  extricate  herself. 

"But  I  should  like  it,"  Mr.  Batson  said  in  a  plaintive 


Miss  Fingal  53 

voice.  "To  be  remembered — memory  is  such  a  won- 
derful thing,  one  of  the  greatest  gifts  to  poor  humanity — 
hasn't  that  often  occurred  to  you,  Miss  Fingal?" 

"No,  it  never  did,"  she  told  him. 

"It's  a  path  backwards." 

"But  sometimes  it  would  make  one  very  unhappy  to 
turn  backwards." 

"I  wouldn't  be  without  my  unhappiness  for  the  world, 
any  more  than  I  would  without  the  thunder  showers  of 
summer  or  the  storms  of  winter,"  he  answered. 

"He  only  talks  like  a  poet  occasionally,"  his  aunt  said 
with  a  gleam  of  good-nature,  "he's  generally  quite  sen- 
sible. I  suppose  you  are  going  to  build  a  garage,  Miss 
Fingal?  You'll  find  it  impossible  to  do  without  a  car 
here.  You'll  find  it  very  lonely  if  you  can't  go  and  see 
your  neighbours." 

"But  I'm  used  to  being  lonely.  Till  uncle  John  died 
I  lived  alone  in  a  flat  at  Battersea — for  eight  years." 

"Eight  years,"  repeated  Mr.  Batson,  "how  beautiful! 
It  gave  you  so  much  time  to  think." 

"I  didn't  think  very  much,"  she  answered  vaguely. 

"You  are  very  wonderful,"  he  turned  two  large  brown 
eyes  on  her,  but  without  effect,  "so  self-abasing — it  is  a 
sign  of  greatness." 

His  aunt  made  a  little  impatient  sign  and  got  up  to 
go.  "Cyril  always  says  things  that  sound  well  but  have 
no  sense  in  them,"  she  said.  "I  am  going  to  Rome 
next  week,  but  I  shall  come  and  see  you  in  London  on 
my  return."  She  pulled  the  sable  cape  over  her  chest 
with  an  unctuous  air  of  satisfaction  at  having  done  what 
was  expected  of  her  and  a  contemptuous  conviction  that 
the  heiress  was  rather  a  fool. 

Miss  Fingal,  following  her  into  the  hall,  saw  that  the 
white  car  was  lined  with  vivid  red  leather. 

"Isn't  it  strange,"  Mr.  Batson  said,  hesitating  on  the 
doorstep,  "how  poor  material  things  can  make  a  jumble 
in  one's  mind  of  comedy  with  tragedy,  the  sublime  and 
the  ridiculous — a  red-and-white  motor-car?  It  makes 
one  think  of  Swinburne's  wonderful  line — 

"  'And   where   the   red   was,   lo   the   bloodless   white.' " 


54  Miss  Fingal 

"I  never  read  it,"  she  said. 

"How  much  you  have  before  you,"  he  sighed,  with 
soft  envy  in  his  tone,  and  departed  with  an  air  of 
regret. 

There  were  two  white  cards  on  the  side-table  in  the 
hall.  "Dr.  and  Mrs.  Harriot  left  them,  miss,"  Stimson 
explained.  "They  wouldn't  come  in  as  Mrs.  Derrick 
was  here.  They  live  just  below  the  pond  at  the  white 
house  with  the  green  fence.  They  asked  if  you  would 
be  here  next  week,  as  they're  going  to  have  a  drawing- 
room  meeting." 

She  sat  down  by  the  fire  in  the  hall  when  Stimson 
had  vanished.  A  meeting!  The  very  sound  of  it 
frightened  her.  She  felt  that  she  could  be  happy  at 
Wavercombe  if  people  would  only  leave  her  alone,  for 
she  liked  the  cottage  and  all  the  things  in  it.  ... 
She  wondered  what  the  Allistons  looked  like.  Mrs. 
Webb  had  not  told  her  that,  only  that  they  were  young 
and  happy  and  loved  each  other.  .  .  .  She  looked  round 
the  little  square  hall — if  only  there  had  been  no  people 
who  thought  they  ought  to  come  and  see  her!  She 
put  her  hands  together  with  a  movement  of  despair. 
...  It  was  growing  dark.  The  servants  were  shut  off 
from  the  hall  by  a  baize-covered  door;  there  was  no 
sound  at  all.  ...  An  idea  occurred  to  her.  She  went 
softly  upstairs,  and  stole  down  again  in  a  close-fitting 
hat  and  a  wrap,  and  out  of  the  house,  closing  the  door 
and  lifting  the  latch  of  the  gate  carefully  so  that  there 
might  be  no  click  of  lock  or  latch  to  betray  her.  She 
longed,  just  for  half  an  hour  perhaps,  to  get  away  from 
humanity.  With  noiseless  steps  she  sped  from  the 
cottage — past  the  green — beside  the  pond — and  on — 
and  on,  while  the  shadows  deepened — till  she  came  to 
the  high  wall  that  shut  in  Beechwood.  How  thankful 
she  was  that  the  Gilstons  were  away.  She  looked  at 
one  of  the  seats  for  wayfarers  and  hesitated,  as  if  con- 
sidering whether  she  would  sit  there,  then  remembered 
that  builders  had  put  up  the  wall.  She  imagined  the 
men  laying  the  bricks,  with  the  mortar  between,  and 
the  wall  growing  higher  and  higher — it  couldn't  have 
been  very  long  ago  from  the  look  of  it — and  when  it  was 


Miss  Fingal  55 

done  the  iron  seat  had  been  placed  beneath  it  for  tired 
passers-by.  Was  Miss  Fingal  growing  imaginative? 
She  turned  away;  she  didn't  want  to  sit  down  and  be 
reminded  of  the  doings  of  men,  or  to  go  farther  on 
towards  the  homes  of  people  like  those  who  had  been  to 
see  her.  She  hurried  back  till  she  reached  the  clump 
of  trees  at  the  end  of  the  pond.  There,  among  them, 
was  a  wooden  seat  with  initials  cut  by  the  penknives 
of  foolish  people — she  had  rested  on  it  two  or  three 
days  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, — she  went  to  it  and 
felt  the  darkness  gather  closer  and  closer  round  her. 
A  clock  struck,  she  heard  it  faintly;  it  must  be  the 
church  clock,  she  thought,  the  church  of  which  Mr. 
Randall,  who  was  such  a  good  man  to  his  crippled 
sister,  was  the  vicar.  She  hoped  he  wouldn't  come  and 
call;  she  wanted  to  be  let  alone  and  not  obliged  to  talk 
to  people  she  didn't  understand. 

There  were  footsteps  among  the  trees.  She  could 
dimly  see  a  man  and  woman  near  the  pond;  but  she 
was  completely  hidden,  and  they  stood  with  their  backs 
to  her.  They  were  silent  for  a  minute,  then  she  heard 
a  man's  eager  young  voice — 

"Look  here,  Annie,  I  didn't  mean  it.  You  know  I'm 
awfully  gone  on  you — why,  I'd  jest  do  anything." 

"Well,  you  shouldn't  have  said  what  you  did,"  the 
woman  answered.  The  voice  was  young  too,  and  very 
fresh.  "I  don't  believe  you  care,  and  we'd  better  come 
to  the  end  of  it." 

"Come  to  the  end  of  it!"  He  was  husky  with 
emotion.  "Why,  it  would  be  the  death  of  me,  and  as 
for  caring — I  should  think  you  know  about  that.  I'd 
sooner  chuck  myself  into  that  bit  of  water  than  give 
you  up." 

"Well,  but  look  here " 

"Yes,  but  look  here — you  don't  mean  it  either,  do 
you? — I  mean  that  you  want  to  end  it — if  you  do  I'll 
know  what  to  do." 

She  hesitated  a  moment  before  she  answered.  "No, 
I  don't,  Alfie  dear,"  and  there  was  silence. 

The  listener  knew  that  he  had  taken  the  girl  in  his 
arms  and  was  kissing  her. 


56  Miss  Fingal 

"There,  that's  it,"  he  said  when  the  long  embrace  was 
over,  "and  we'll  get  married  as  soon  as  we  can — then 
there  won't  be  any  more  mistakes." 

There  was  a  little  cooing  sound  of  assent.  "But  I 
must  go,"  she  said,  "or  they'll  wonder  where  I've  got 
to."  They  went  along  the  road  together. 

Miss  Fingal  turned,  and  resting  her  arms  on  the  back 
of  the  seat  put  her  head  down  on  them.  "I  couldn't 
feel  like  that — I  couldn't.  I'm  not  alive — I  can't  be 
alive.  I  must  pray  to  something — to  God — to  Christ. 
Let  me  be  alive — alive — different  from  now.  I  don't  feel 
enough  or  live  enough." 

Mr.  Randall  called  the  next  day — it  was  a  Thursday. 
He  was  a  large  well-conditioned  vicar  of  forty-five,  with 
a  steady  gaze,  a  slightly  superior  smile  that  gave  him  an 
air  of  authority,  and  an  effective  middle  tone  in  his 
voice.  He  told  her  how  much  he  had  esteemed  her 
uncle,  who  at  one  time  rented  the  vicarage  every  year 
(which,  of  course,  she  knew),  while  he,  the  vicar,  went 
for  his  annual  holiday — to  Wales,  he  added,  as  if  he 
;hought  the  detail  would  interest  her,  that  he  had  always 
liked  the  Welsh:  they  were  untruthful,  fond  of  money, 
and  not  very  clean,  but  a  most  worthy  set  of  people. 

She  said,  "Yes?"  and  waited. 

"One  year,"  he  continued,  "I  tried  staying  in 
London,  or  rather  in  Chiswick,  where  I  have  a  sister, 
a  dear  exemplary  woman,  much  afflicted,  and  most 
patient;  but  I  found  that  the  air  didn't  rest  me  as  that 
of  Wales  did." 

She  had  heard  of  his  sister  from  Lady  Francis. 

"Ah,  yes,  Sir  George  and  Lady  Francis — most  kind 
people,  anxious  to  do  what  they  can ;  but  they  have 
many  calls  upon  them.  With  your  uncle  it  was  differ- 
ent, of  course,  he  was  a  bachelor — all  his  life  a  bachelor. 
The  poor  of  Wavercombe  have  missed  him;  luckily 
there  are  not  very  many,  but  still  there  are  cottages 
with  old,  very  old  people  in  them,  needing  coal  and 
other  comforts  at  this  season  of  the  year.  He  was  mind- 
ful of  them;  no  doubt  he  realised  that  it  was  a  blessed 
thing  to  help  them." 


Miss  Fingal  57 

"It  was  very  kind  of  him,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Randall  paused  a  moment,  then  went  bravely  on. 
"Both  in  winter  and  summer  the  local  interests  have 
cause  to  regret  Mr.  Fingal.  If  he  was  not  a  very  gener- 
ous man,  he  was  always  sensible  of  what  might  be  called 
legitimate  claims  upon  him."  He  paused  again,  and, 
without  removing  his  gaze  from  her,  he  remarked  that 
the  rich  had  great  privileges,  very  great  privileges  and 
opportunities. 

"How  much  did  uncle  John  give  you  at  Christmas?" 
she  asked  quite  simply,  and  took  her  cheque-book  from 
a  despatch-box  on  the  bookcase.  "I  should  like  to  give 
you  twice  as  much,  and  I  will  always  send  it  if  I  am  not 
here.  Please  let  the  poor  people  have  a  great  deal  of 
coal,  they  will  get  ill  if  they're  not  warm." 

He  went  away,  surprised  and  very  satisfied.  A 
curious  woman,  and  unfathomable,  he  thought,  but  it 
was  possible  that  she  might  prove  a  benefactress  to 
the  district. 

Miss  Fingal  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  his 
back  disappear  in  the  distance,  then  she  sat  down  by 
the  fire  and,  drawing  the  easy-chair  a  little  nearer  to  it, 
reached  out  for  a  novel. 

"Stimson,"  she  said — he  had  lingered  in  the  hall — 
"would  you  come  in?  We  will  go  back  to  London 
to-morrow.  Please  order  a  fly  for  the  two  o'clock 
train." 

"Isn't  it  rather  a  pity,  miss?"  he  asked  with  mild 
surprise.  "Webb  has  been  wanting  to  see  you  about 
the  garden  ever  since  he  came  home  last  night ;  but 
for  the  rain  he  was  going  to  ask  if  you  would  go  round 
it  with  him  this  morning." 

"I  will  see  him  to-morrow.  There  will  be  plenty  of 
time.  We  shall  be  here  till  the  early  afternoon."  She 
opened  her  book. 

"Yes,  miss,  or  there's  the  five  o'clock  express." 

"That  will  be  better,"  she  answered,  as  if  to  show  that 
she  was  amenable  to  reason. 

He  made  another  effort.  "There's  the  meeting  at 
Dr.  Marriot's  next  week,  miss.  He  seems  very  anxious 
you  should  be  there." 


58  Miss  Fingal 

"I'm  sorry."  She  went  on  with  her  book.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  be  done. 

"I  can't  make  her  out  sometimes,"  he  told  Mrs.  Webb. 
"She  has  a  way  of  her  own,  though  at  first  you  think 
she's  yielding  in  everything.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  some 
day  she  wakes  up  and  surprises  us." 

Miss  Fingal  saw  Webb  in  the  morning,  and,  having 
listened  to  his  suggestions  for  the  garden,  gave  him 
leave  to  spend  all  he  asked,  more  if  he  wished,  for 
improvements  and  additions.  He  never  guessed  how 
little  she  knew  of  his  craft.  "She  seemed  anxious 
that  everything  should  be  done  that  Miss  Linda  had 
wanted,"  he  said  afterwards — "the  new  borders  and 
mixed  flower-beds,  and  the  flagged  pathway  going  to  the 
orchard,  and  yet  she  doesn't  seem  to  take  much  interest 
in  it  for  herself." 

And  that  was  what  Miss  Fingal  felt,  that  she  was 
doing  it  for  some  one  else,  some  one  she  never  attempted 
to  define.  She  sat  by  the  fire  again  after  luncheon, 
trying  to  finish  her  book  before  it  was  time  to  go.  The 
luggage  had  gone  already  by  an  earlier  train  with  Stim- 
son,  who  wanted  to  be  in  London  to  receive  her  when 
she  arrived.  The  Webbs  and  Emma  had  been  thanked 
and  generously  Christmas-boxed;  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  done.  She  looked  at  the  little  inlaid  clock 
over  the  fireplace — half-past  three.  Mrs.  Webb  had 
stated  that  at  four  o'clock  she  would  send  in  "an  early 
cup  of  tea  before  you  start,  miss."  Miss  Fingal  had 
learnt  that  she  was  always  to  expect  early  tea  from  a 
faithful  servant. 

It  had  been  a  strange  little  visit,  this  first  one,  to 
the  cottage  from  which  she  was  hurrying  away.  But 
loneliness  was  her  natural  condition.  In  Battersea  she 
had  had  no  visitors,  not  one  in  all  the  years — the  long 
silent  years  that  in  a  measure  had  paralysed  her  and 
made  human  intercourse  a  difficult  art.  Perhaps  in 
time  it  would  be  easier,  but  now  she  resented  everything 
that  filled  the  peaceful  blankness  that  usually  stretched 
out  before  her. 


X. 


A  WINDY  rainy  autumn  subsided  into  a  mild  winter  with 
sunshine  and  soft  warm  days,  so  that  people  who  had 
spent  their  money  on  going  to  Italy  and  Egypt  felt  that 
they  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home.  Sir  James  felt 
it  at  Montreux;  a  fortnight  after  the  new  year  had  set 
in,  the  morning  papers  announced  that  Sir  James  and 
Lady  Gilston  had  arrived  in  London  for  the  season. 
He  always  saw  to  it  that  there  was  an  occasional  para- 
graph concerning  him — even  if  it  meant  a  guinea  he 
considered  it  well  spent,  though  since  he  had  become  a 
generous  subscriber  to  various  charities,  and  there  was 
some  talk  of  his  going  into  Parliament,  he  was  generally 
given  a  free  advertisement. 

He  went  to  see  Miss  Fingal  soon  after  his  return. 
"Sorry  to  have  missed  you  at  Wavercombe,"  he  said, 
"so  was  Lady  Gilston.  She  is  going  to  call  on  you 
in  a  day  or  two."  He  always  spoke  of  it  as  a  treat  in 
store. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  her,"  his  ward  answered  as  usual. 

"Not  at  all.  She  will  be  very  glad  to  do  it,  I  am 
sure.  Well,  now,  has  Jimmy  been  to  see  you?" 

"No.     I  dare  say  he  hasn't  had  time." 

"He'll  come.  He  liked  you.  Told  me  so,  but  he's 
shy." 

"I  didn't  think  he  was  shy." 

Something  in  her  voice  made  him  look  at  her.  "He 
is,  I  assure  you.  I  say,  you  look  better  than  you  did. 
I  thought  you  were  a  delicate  girl  at  first." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  not.  I  have  never  really  been  ill  in  my 
life." 

"Excellent,  and  you've  quite  a  colour  now,  eyes 

59 


60  Miss  Fingal 

brighter,  voice  with  more  chirp  in  it.  Wavercombe  has 
done  you  good.  Has  Bertha  been — Jimmy's  sister,  I 
mean?  You  knew  I'd  been  married  twice — Jimmy 
and  Bertha  are  the  first  batch.  They're  not  at  home. 
Children  never  want  a  stepmother;  stepmother  doesn't 
want  them — the  odd  thing  is  they  don't  want  to  be 
together  either.  Very  fond  of  each  other,  but  don't 
want  to  be  together.  Jimmy  has  two  rooms  in  a  little 
street  off  the  Strand;  Bertha  has  a  little  flat  just  off 
Sloane  Square — all  sorts  of  gimcracks  in  it,  a  little  hole 
with  a  skylight  that  she  calls  a  studio.  They  talk  of 
going  for  a  run  abroad  next  month." 

"Where  will  they  go?"  she  asked.  Places  were 
beginning  to  interest  her.  In  the  future  she  knew  that 
her  feet  would  tread  them. 

"I  don't  know,  but  just  where  they  like.  Bertha 
thinks  she  picks  up  ideas  abroad.  I  don't  know  what 
she  wants  ideas  for;  doesn't  tell  me  and  I  don't  ask 
questions — young  people  won't  stand  it  nowadays. 
She  wanted  to  give  up  her  flat  and  have  one  in  Paris 
instead,  but  I  disapproved  of  that,  put  my  foot  down  a 
little  heavily.  She  said  she  wanted  to  study  art  at 
somebody's  studio;  all  nonsense,  you  know."  He 
laughed  pleasantly.  "What  does  she  want  with  art? 
She  couldn't  do  any  good  with  it — only  waste  of 
money."  He  pulled  out  his  large  gold  watch. 
"Getting  late.  I  must  be  off.  Good-bye." 

He  hurried  away,  the  habits  of  long  business  years 
clung  to  him.  "She's  better-looking  than  she  was  and 
not  at  all  a  bad  sort,"  he  thought.  "If  Jimmy  married 
her  he  need  never  do  a  day's  work  as  long  as  he  lived. 
He's  not  a  chap  likely  to  fall  in  love,  or  make  a  fool  of 
himself  in  that  way;  so  perhaps  he'll  see  the  wisdom  of 
settling  down  with  a  wife  who'd  give  him  every  sort  of 
comfort  and  never  be  a  worry." 

But  Jimmy  laughed  at  the  idea,  which  was  put  to  him 
quite  bluntly.  "No,  thank  you,  pater.  I  don't  see  myself 
living  in  Bedford  Square  with  John  Fingal's  heiress.  I 
felt  sorry  for  her  at  the  Bendish  dinner.  She  looked 
such  an  unconsidered  little  stick-in-the-mud — wanted 
waking  up." 


Miss  Fingal  61 

"Go  and  see  her.  She's  improving — in  looks,  I  mean. 
Take  her  out — I'll  stand  the  racket.  Ask  her  to  marry 
you  and  she'll  wake  up." 

"I'll  go  and  see  her,  if  you  like,  and  don't  mind  taking 
her  out,  but  I  draw  the  line  at  the  rest." 

"Well,  do  it  handsomely  and  you  shall  have  a  cheque 
for  your  trip  abroad  next  month." 

"Done  with  you,"  said  Jimmy,  and  went  on  his  way. 

Sir  James  considered  it  a  beginning,  and  told  his  wife 
that  she  ought  to  call  and  make  herself  agreeable  to  Miss 
Fingal.  "I  think  we  might  invite  her  to  dine — look 
civil,  you  know,"  he  suggested. 

Lady  Gilston  reflected  for  a  moment.  "But  why 
should  we?"  she  asked.  "She  doesn't  entertain;  you 
say  she's  not  attractive — Sir  George  Francis  said  she 
was  plain  and  had  nothing  to  say — and  she  is  no  one  in 
particular." 

"She's  rich." 

"There  are  heaps  of  unattractive  rich  people  in 
London  who  can  be  useful  to  us  in  many  ways;  why 
burden  me  with  a  new  acquaintance  who  is  useless?" 

"Well — but — you  know,  I've  been  thinking  it  would 
be  such  an  excellent  thing  if  she  married  Jimmy." 

"She  won't — and,  if  she  would,  he  wouldn't." 

"We  shall  have  to  know  her  at  Wavercombe." 

"That  won't  matter;  we  can  ask  her  to  the  garden 
party,  and  when  Dorothy  and  Winifred  come  back  they 
can  go  and  see  her.  But  stray  colourless  women  in 
London  are  a  bore;  I  think  one  should  have  courage 
not  to  know  the  people  one  doesn't  want." 

Nevertheless  Lady  Gilston  called  the  next  day,  chiefly 
because  she  happened  to  be  in  Great  Russell  Street  in 
the  afternoon,  and  remembered  that  Bedford  Square  was 
quite  near.  Besides,  she  reflected  that  since  Miss  Fingal 
would  be  a  neighbour  at  Wavercombe  it  might  look 
rude  not  to  have  made  some  sign  to  her  in  London. 

She  was  a  tall  thin  woman,  worn  and  tired-looking, 
with  a  graceful  carriage  and  a  firm,  not  unpleasant 
voice.  People  who  met  them  for  the  first  time  wondered 
how  she  had  come  to  marry  Sir  James.  She  had  done 
it  simply  for  his  money.  At  thirty  she  had  found 


62  Miss  Fingal 

herself  desperately  poor  and  embarrassed;  she  had 
never  lived  without  comfort,  and  luxuries — provided  by 
other  people — and  she  was  determined  always  to  have 
them.  She  was  not  attractive  in  the  usual  sense;  an 
unsatisfactory  love  affair,  or  rather  marriage  scheme, 
and  constant  worries  in  her  family  had  hardened  as 
well  as  embittered  her.  In  a  dogged  frame  of  mind, 
feeling  that  nothing  mattered  except  the  material  things 
of  life,  she  met  Sir  James  Gilston — good-humoured, 
more  vulgar  than  now,  and  boastfully  rich.  He  was  a 
widower  with  two  children,  but  they  were  little  and 
she  did  not  see  them.  Bertha  was  with  country  re- 
lations and  going  later  to  a  school  in  Brussels,  Jimmy 
already  at  a  preparatory  one  in  Yorkshire.  "They  won't 
bother  you  much,"  he  assured  her,  "and  you  shall  have 
things  all  your  own  way."  He  had  already  given  up 
the  house  on  Clapham  Common  in  order  to  take  a 
large  corner  one  in  Portland  Place.  He  saw  an 
advertisement  of  Beechwood  at  Wavercombe,  and  per- 
suaded her  to  go  with  him  to  see  it :  it  comprised 
many  acres,  a  wood,  and  a  little  farm,  as  well  as  what 
he  called  "a  real  mansion — a  country-seat,  you  know." 
She  liked  it.  "I'll  buy  it,  if  you'll  marry  me,"  he  said, 
"and  you  shall  alter  the  fittings  as  much  as  you  please 
— what  do  you  say?" 

She  felt  that  she  could  bear  anything  if  she  had 
money.  They  got  on  very  well;  she  despised  him, 
but  pleasantly ;  she  was  tolerant  and  never  unkind  to 
his  children,  though  she  was  not  always  able  to  hide  her 
impatience  to  get  them  out  of  her  way.  In  time  she 
had  two  of  her  own  and  cared  a  good  deal  for  them; 
she  would  have  cared  more  if  they  had  not  looked  so 
much  like  their  father.  They  were  nearly  grown  up 
now,  but  still  at  a  school  in  Lausanne  kept  by  her  own 
former  governess.  She  had  been  a  little  hampered  by 
her  well-bred  poor  relations  (she  had  come  of  a  spend- 
thrift family),  but  she  had  helped  them,  and  made  her 
husband  feel  that  it  was  a  sign  of  his  own  uplifting  that 
she  did  it  with  his  money.  Luckily  the  relations  had, 
in  a  leisurely  fashion,  betaken  themselves  to  a  better 
world  or  adjusted  their  affairs  in  other  ways.  Bertha 


Miss  Fingal  63 

and  Jimmy  as  they  grew  up  struck  out  for  themselves, 
and  except  for  an  occasional  visit  troubled  her  little. 
When  they  came  to  Beechwood  or  Portland  Place  she 
recognised  their  right  to  the  shelter  of  the  paternal 
roof,  and  was  relieved  that  they  did  not  seek  it  very 
often.  Her  cousin,  Lady  Hester  Markham,  had  sniffed 
at  them — this  was  years  ago — and  found  herself  snubbed. 
"They  are  good-natured  creatures,"  she  was  told,  "better 
than  we  are  in  many  ways,"  and  she  was  advised  to 
accept  Jimmy's  suggestion  that  the  cottage  she  had 
just  taken  and  partly  rebuilt  (Sir  James  helped  her  to 
do  it)  should  be  called  Briarpatch.  It  was  done, — a 
trivial  instance  of  how  Lady  Gilston's  quiet  insistence 
generally  carried  the  day — in  small  things  as  well  as 
large.  Jimmy  did  badly  both  at  school  and  at  Oxford; 
his  father  had  been  angry,  but  she  consoled  him  by 
saying  that  it  frequently  happened  in  the  most  aristo- 
cratic families.  When  he  wanted  to  set  up  rooms  in 
London  she  agreed  that  he  ought  to  have  them  and 
helped  him  to  find  them.  She  suspected  him  of  spend- 
ing more  money  than  was  good  for  him,  but  she  and  her 
children  were  protected  by  excellent  settlements,  and, 
after  all,  she  thought,  what  would  a  few  thousands 
matter  ? 

Then  there  was  Bertha.  When  she  reached  her 
twenty-second  birthday  she  resented  being  left  at  home 
without  resources,  while  her  stepmother  went  out  with 
her  father;  but  it  opened  a  door  of  escape.  She  ex- 
plained that  she  wanted  to  be  on  her  own;  she  had 
an  idea  that  she  could  paint,  perhaps  write — anyway 
do  something;  heaps  of  girls  did  and  made  their  own 
friends.  Lady  Gilston  told  Sir  James  that  it  was  quite 
a  usual  thing  now  to  let  them  have  a  little  bachelor 
flat  and  an  allowance;  eventually  Bertha  had  both. 
Thus,  Beechwood  and  the  house  in  London  were 
ready  for  the  school-girls  at  Lausanne  when  they  came 
back,  and  their  mother  was  calmly  content  at  knowing 
that  they  would  not  have  to  struggle  with  insufficient 
means  such  as  had  beset  her  own  early  years.  She  had 
never  regretted  her  marriage,  it  had  given  her  affluence 
and  peace;  but  she  was  a  tired  woman,  tired  with  the 


64  Miss  Fingal 

.remembrance  of  family  bickerings  and  mortifications, 
and  by  a  sense  of  disappointment  that  life  had  not 
proved  to  be  a  better  and  more  desirable  condition  than 
she  had  found  it. 

She  was  bored  by  her  husband's  insistence  that  she 
should  show  some  civility  to  Miss  Fingal,  and  his  remark 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  she  married  Jimmy  was 
absurd ;  still,  one  never  knew ;  it  would  be  such  an 
excellent  thing  for  Jimmy — she  determined  to  go  and 
see  the  heiress. 

When  she  did  she  found  a  somewhat  speechless  young 
woman  who  was  not  at  all  likely  to  attract,  or  to  be 
attracted  by,  her  stepson.  Still,  it  was  a  relief  to  realise 
that  she  was  not  likely  to  make  any  social  demands  on 
her  time.  "And  she  won't  do  Wavercombe  any  harm," 
she  thought.  "I  wish  I  had  managed  her  uncle  better, 
but  he  was  tiresome  and  I  never  dreamt  that  he  was 
so  rich.  She  has  a  well-bred  air,  and  she  will  probably 
keep  a  car;  she  can  take  Dorothy  and  Winifred  about 
sometimes  when  they  come  back." 

"I  hoped  to  come  and  see  you  before,"  she  explained, 
"but  there  is  always  so  much  to  do  in  London — and 
I  dare  say  you  have  too  many  visitors  already,"  she  added 
politely. 

"Oh  no,  I  hardly  know  any  one." 

"You  must  find  it  dull?" 

"No — I'm  used  to  being  alone." 

"Yes — "  and  there  was  a  pause. 

Mercifully,  Stimson  entered  with  a  lamp;  then  tea 
appeared,  on  a  large  silver  tray  with  handles,  good 
old-fashioned  china  cups  with  rat-tail  spoons  and  a 
silver  jug  and  sugar-basin  to  match — a  trivial  memorial 
to  the  high  respectability  of  the  dead,  just  as  the  dainty 
service  at  Briarpatch  had  been  one  to  the  charm  of 
the  living.  The  food  looked  dull,  but  Lady  Gilston 
brightened  up  a  little  as  she  doubled  over  one  of  the 
large  thin  slices  of  bread-and-butter  and  realised  that 
the  outside  of  her  cup  was  quite  hot. 

"I  hope  you  had  some  pleasant  callers  at  Waver- 
combe?" she  asked. 

"Sir  George  and  Lady  Francis  came " 


Miss  Fingal  65 

"Oh  yes,  very  worthy,  and  so  uninteresting,"  with  a 
little  cynical  laugh. 

"And  Mrs.  Derrick." 

"Did  she  bring  her  ridiculous  nephew?" 

At  which  Miss  Fingal  looked  up  with  a  light  in  her 
eyes  that  made  Lady  Gilston  almost  like  her.  "He 
was  rather  amusing,  and  his  aunt's  manner  wasn't  very 
kind." 

"I  always  thought  him  most  tiresome,  but  it's  nice  of 
you  to  put  it  in  that  way.  I  dislike  literary  people  my- 
self, especially  poets — they  take  themselves  so  seriously. 
Richard  Alliston  used  to  invite  them  to  the  cottage  at 
one  time,  but  he  was  bored  with  them.  Shall  you  go 
there  again  at  Easter?" 

"I  don't  know  yet — there  are  so  many  places  to  see," 
Miss  Fingal  answered,  with  a  suggestion  of  vision  in  her 
voice;  for  Wavercombe,  though  it  was  such  a  little  way 
from  London,  had  given  her  an  increased  sense  of  the 
extending  world  and  the  ease  with  which  distances  were 
reached.  The  idea  was  taking  hold  of  her  that  she 
would  go  away  again,  and  soon,  but  not  to  Briarpatch, 
though  in  the  future  she  knew  that  much  of  her  time 
would  be  spent  there.  She  wanted  to  see  other  places, 
and  without  servants — from  whom  it  was  as  impossible 
to  escape  at  the  cottage  as  in  Bedford  Square;  to  be 
entirely  unknown  again,  unheard  of,  so  that  no  one 
would  have  an  idea  that  she  ought  to  be  visited.  In 
some  queer  way  that  was  her  own,  she  felt  it  would 
help  her  to  realise  the  possibilities  that  money  had 
brought  her,  and  strengthen  her  for  the  world  she  had 
to  live  in. 

"You  want  a  more  lively  place,"  Lady  Gilston  said, 
with  kindly  contempt  for  Wavercombe  in  her  voice,  and 
relief  at  the  prospect  of  not  having  the  heiress  on  her 
mind  at  Easter. 

"Oh  no,  not  at  first.  I  think  I  should  like  to  go 
somewhere  that  is  very  quiet.  I  am  so  accustomed  to 
— stillness."  She  hesitated  over  the  last  word,  but 
another  one  did  not  suggest  itself. 

"It  sounds  like  a  remark  the  dead  might  make," 
Lady  Gilston  said  it  with  a  little  shiver.  Her  eyes  rested 


66  Miss  Fingal 

on  the  tall  white  vases  against  the  dark  wall  of  the 
further  room.  They  looked  ghostly  in  the  waning 
light — just  as  they  did  to  their  owner.  "Where  would 
you  go?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  been  about  so  little."  Miss 
Fingal  looked  up  with  a  smile  that  y^as  half  apologetic. 

"I  went  to  Leesbury  the  other  day — a  few  miles  from 
Great  Missenden.  It's  a  very  small  place.  I  think  you 
would  find  that  still  enough — no  one  lives  there  yet, 
though  there  are  golf  links  near,  and  they  have  found 
out  lately  that  the  air  is  very  good.  So  I  dare  say  it 
will  grow.  There's  a  little  hotel,  the  'White  Hart.' 
I'm  told  it's  excellent." 

"Did  you  stay  there?" 

"Oh  no,  I  only  went  for  a  few  hours  to  see  my  cousin, 
Linda  Alliston — your  cottage  at  Wavercombe  belonged 
to  her  before  your  uncle  bought  it." 

Miss  Fingal  leant  forward,  and  the  expression  on  her 
face  became  almost  eager. 

"I  heard  about  her,  and  I  thought  of  her  a  great  deal 
while  I  was  at  the  cottage." 

"She  married  a  man  who  behaved  disgracefully — it's 
extraordinary  how  many  men  behave  badly  to  women, 
isn't  it?" 

"Is  it?    I  haven't  known  any." 

"Linda  divorced  her  husband,  of  course,"  Lady 
Gilston  went  on.  "He  left  her  before  the  second  child 
was  born — it's  only  eighteen  months  old  now.  She 
might  have  married  much  better.  Her  cousin,  Lord 
Stockton,  was  fond  of  her  at  one  time,  a  clever  man 
and  very  rich." 

"But  money  doesn't  always  make  people  happy." 

"Being  without  it  is  very  inconvenient,"  Lady  Gilston 
answered  with  a  little  snappy  laugh.  "I  never  could 
understand  what  women  saw  in  Richard  Alliston  myself; 
he  ruined  Linda's  life."  She  pulled  her  fur  round  her, 
as  if  preparing  to  go. 

Miss  Fingal  hardly  noticed  it;  she  was  thinking  of 
the  orchard,  and  the  garden,  of  all  that  was  being  done 
to  it.  Webb  had  written  that  morning  telling  her  what 
he  was  doing.  For  a  moment  she  imagined  the  two 


Miss  Fingal  67 

who  used  to  walk  about  under  the  apple-trees.  "Her 
friends  must  be  very  sorry  for  her,"  she  said  absently. 

"She  hasn't  many  friends  now,"  Lady  Gilston  an- 
swered, "or  none  who  will  do  anything  for  her,  so  that 
she's  on  my  mind  a  good  deal.  She's  not  a  near  rela- 
tion," she  added.  "Her  mother  was  my  cousin,  but 
she  is  abroad,  which  is  very  tiresome  of  her,  for  Linda 
was  never  very  strong  and  now  she's  really  ill.  If  she 
doesn't  take  care — "  she  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"If  I  went  there — perhaps  I  might  go  and  see  her?" 
It  was  a  strange  suggestion  to  come  from  the  woman 
who  longed  to  be  alone. 

Lady  Gilston  jumped  at  it.  "How  very  kind  of  you 
to  think  of  it — the  air  would  do  you  good." 

"Is  she  at  the  White  Hart?" 

"Oh  no,  she's  at  Highbrook  Farm,  about  a  mile  off. 
I  wish  you  would  go." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  can — "  Miss  Fingal  said  with 
mild  indecision. 

"I  hope  you  will,"  came  the  firm  answer;  and  then  in 
a  more  genial  tone,  "it  would  be  too  delightful  of  you. 
Good-bye.  I'm  so  glad  to  have  seen  you."  Lady 
Gilston  felt  quite  pleased  with  herself  as  she  whizzed 
along  Bedford  Square.  "She  might  take  a  fancy  to 
her,"  she  thought.  "She  has  plenty  of  money  and  she 
doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

The  lonely  woman  sat  by  the  dull  red  fire  with  her 
hands  folded,  but  a  dim  vista  had  opened  before  her. 
Stimson  brought  in  another  old-fashioned  lamp,  for  no 
electricity  had  penetrated  into  that  sedate  house.  Uncle 
John  had  hated  workmen;  lamps  had  served  his  family, 
and  served  him  to  the  end.  She  looked  up  at  the  bare 
room,  at  the  long  bookcase,  and  the  satinwood  piano, 
and  the  two  alabaster  vases — "It  sounds  like  a  remark 
the  dead  might  make."  There  came  back  to  her  the 
shivery  laugh  with  which  her  visitor  had  said  it.  "I 
think  she  is  quite  right,"  she  thought.  "If  I  don't  take 
care  I  shall  slip  in  among  them  without  being  dead. 

She  turned  to  the  fire  again,  lulled  and  half  dazed  by 
her  thoughts.  Leesbury!  a  place  where  there  were  no 
people  to  call,  a  little  hotel,  and  in  the  background 


68  Miss  Fingal     . 

Highbrook  Farm  and  Linda  Alliston.  She  dreamt  of  it 
all  that  night.  And  in  the  morning,  just  as  if  the  reali- 
ties had  known,  the  dream  began  to  come  true. 

After  breakfast,  Mrs.  Turner  came  to  take  the  simple 
orders  for  the  day.  When  they  were  over,  she  gener- 
ally disappeared,  but  this  morning  she  lingered. 

"January  is  getting  on,  miss,  and  the  spring  will  be 
on  us  before  we  know  where  we  are,"  she  said.  "You 
see  it's  so  fine,  just  as  if  it  was  hurrying." 

"Yes?" 

"If  you  thought  of  going  away  any  time,  miss,  per- 
haps you  would  let  us  know." 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind 
yet,"  Miss  Fingal  answered  with  the  shy  dignity  that 
always  forbade  much  questioning. 

It  made  Mrs.  Turner  apologetic.  "It  was  only  that 
Stimson  and  I  were  saying  there  were  things  that  want 
doing  to  the  house,"  she  explained.  "Mr.  Fingal  talked 
last  year  of  having  our  rooms  upstairs  painted  and  done 
up  for  us;  and  then  there's  the  basement.  And  the  out- 
side of  the  house  does  look  shabby.  It's  peeling  off. 
But  if  you  were  at  home  you  mightn't  like  the  smell  of 
paint,  it  makes  some  people  ill." 

Miss  Fingal  looked  up  quickly.  "It's  very  kind  of 
you  to  think  of  it " 

"Perhaps  you  don't  want  anything  done  this  year, 
miss?"  Mrs.  Turner  said  with  tactful  deference. 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,  and  I  should  like  to  go  away — it  would 
be  better;  when  do  you  want  to  begin?" 

"Well,  miss,  just  when  you  like.  You  know  what 
workmen  are,  once  they  are  in,  and  when  they're  gone 
there'll  be  spring  cleaning." 

"You  had  better  tell  them  to  come  at  once." 

Mrs.  Turner  had  never  seen  any  one  take  things  so 
easily.  It  gave  her  courage.  "Did  you  ever  think  of 
having  electric  light  put  in,  miss?"  she  asked.  "It 
wouldn't  be  much  trouble  when  workmen  are  about — 
the  wires  are  outside;  and  it  would  make  all  the  differ- 
ence,  especially  on  the  stairs  and  in  that  big  drawing- 
room.  Stimson  and  I  often  wonder  how  you  can  sit 
there  alone  these  dark  evenings?" 


Miss  Fingal  69 

"Yes.  I  will  ask  Mr.  Bendish  about  it,"  and  Mrs. 
Turner  was  gently  dismissed. 

A  day-dream  began  in  that  next  half-hour.  The  dark- 
ness and  greyness  and  shadows  receded  before  it.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  been  journeying  through  them  towards 
the  dawn  .  .  .  and  she  was  mounting  a  watch-tower  to 
see  what  might  be  coming  towards  her  in  the  morning 
light — the  light  of  electricity — how  absurd  it  was!  But 
silently  and  alone,  through  the  long  dreary  hours  of  that 
first  winter,  in  the  house  uncle  John  had  left  her,  she 
had  gone  through  a  world  of  dull,  unidentified  suffering, 
of  vague  fear  and  shrinking;  and  now,  suddenly,  in  a 
prosaic  material  way  her  surroundings  were  going  to  be 
changed.  She  went  over  to  the  big  writing-table  and  sat 
down  and  wrote  two  letters,  one  to  Mr.  Bendish  asking  if 
he  would  come  and  see  her,  and  the  other  to  the  White 
Hart  Hotel  at  Leesbury,  saying  that  she  would  like  to 
go  there  at  once  and  stay  for  a  time,  if  she  could  have 
two  front  rooms.  "I  should  like  to  see  the  road  and 
all  the  things  that  go  by,"  she  thought,  "for  the  world 
is  so  interesting  to  look  at." 

"Excellent  idea,"  Mr.  Bendish  said  when  he  heard  of 
the  scheme.  "By  all  means  put  light  everywhere,  and 
while  you  are  about  it  tear  down  that  dark  faded  old 
paper  on  the  staircase  and  hang  up  something  more 
cheerful.  I  wonder  you  don't  have  the  whole  place 
done  up.  My  wife  said  she  suggested  it,  but  you  didn't 
seem  to  like  disturbing  things." 

"I  will  now,"  she  answered. 

The  next  day  she  had  a  letter  from  the  White  Hart 
saying  that  the  sitting-room  and  bedroom  on  the  first 
floor,  both  at  the  front  looking  out  on  the  common,  were 
reserved  for  her. 


XI. 


THE  White  Hart  was  an  old-fashioned  country  inn  that, 
because  of  some  modern  improvements,  called  itself  an 
hotel.  The  wainscoted  rooms  remained,  but  over  their 
native  brown  they  had  been  painted  white,  and  the  old 
stairway  twisting  about  the  house  that  had  once  been 
two  houses,  as  if  to  see  all  that  had  been  done  as  a 
concession  to  the  new  world.  Miss  Fingal's  rooms  looked 
on  to  the  untidy  main  road  that  straggled  here  and  there 
towards  a  little  bit  of  common  opposite;  it  reminded  her 
of  the  green  at  Wavercombe,  though  it  had  a  less  sophis- 
ticated air  than  that  occasionally  swept  and  garnished 
space.  Well  beyond  the  common,  on  the  skyline  to  the 
right,  were  a  few  half-built  villas,  a  hint  of  the  days 
to  come.  In  the  middle  background  on  the  left  were 
some  woods  and  undulating  ground  that  rose  and  fell 
and  stretched  away  into  the  natural  characteristics  of 
the  place.  Few  things  passed  by  the  hotel — except  for 
its  links  Leesbury  had  not  been  found  out, — farm-carts 
creaked  by  occasionally,  sometimes  a  motor  whizzed,  or 
a  tradesman's  cart  stopped  while  its  driver  refreshed 
himself  on  his  way  to  customers,  farmers  mostly,  farther 
off.  The  station  was  round  a  corner  fifty  yards  behind 
the  hotel;  the  golfers  arrived  with  their  bags,  caddies 
awaited  them,  and  went  across  the  common  to  the  links 
that  were  evidently  beyond  the  villas  that  were  being 
built,  a  mile  or  so  away:  it  was  in  that  direction  that 
the  modern  fiend  would  creep  in  on  Leesbury.  Miss 
Fingal  watched  them  all  with  interest  from  the  window 
of  her  sitting-room.  She  felt  happier  in  this  cheerful 
lodging  than  in  the  drawing-room  at  Bedford  Square, 
or  even  at  the  cottage.  It  held  no  memories,  for  her 

70 


Miss  Fingal  71 

at  any  rate,  of  people  who  had  died  or  whose  joyful- 
togetherness  had  come  to  an  end;  she  was  virtually 
alone  in  an  unexplored  country,  as  she  had  been  at 
Battersea. 

And  three  good  days  went  by. 

She  had  not  been  to  Highbrook  Farm  yet,  though  it 
was  always  in  her  mind — she  was  waiting  for  some 
indefinite  bidding  that  would  give  her  courage:  the 
bidding  that  all  of  us  have  known  in  different  ways  at 
some  time.  It  came  on  the  fourth  afternoon  of  her 
visit,  a  sunny  day  with  little  sounds  in  the  air  that  told 
of  nature's  satisfaction.  The  wooden  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  struck  half-past  two.  She  remembered  how 
soon  the  light  would  fail,  though  the  days  were  beginning 
to  lengthen.  Then  suddenly  she  felt  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  walk,  that  her  courage  might  fail,  that 
perhaps  at  the  last  she  would  turn  back;  but  it  would 
take  so  little  time  to  drive  and  she  would  be  there 
before  the  excitement  of  starting  had  ended.  Lady 
Gilston  had  said  it  was  only  a  mile  off.  She  rang 
and  ordered  the  inn  fly — the  one  drivable  thing  to 
be  had. 

She  heard  the  creaking  of  the  harness  as  the  fly  came 
jp  to  the  door,  and  looking  out,  saw  with  satisfaction  that 
it  was  open.  A  thin  old  man  sat  up  on  the  box,  hold- 
ing the  reins  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  driven  better 
beasts  in  his  time,  but  was  resigned  to  his  fate.  The 
ostler,  a  little  short  man  in  corduroys,  who  always  hung 
about  the  front  of  the  house  just  under  the  sign-post — 
which  had  a  cracked  faded  white  hart  painted  on  it — 
was  holding  the  patient  head  of  the  bony  old  horse. 

The  way  for  half  a  mile  lay  along  the  main  road,  then 
turned  off  on  the  left  to  a  narrower  one  that  wound 
beneath  overhanging  elms  and  oaks;  through  their 
brown  arms  the  winter  sunlight  fell  upon  her  till,  a 
hundred  yards  down,  they  retreated  and  showed  a  row  of 
ten  dilapidated  cottages,  with  little  wooden-fenced  fore- 
courts and  thatched  roofs.  A  stone  tablet  on  the  fifth 
cottage  gave  the  year  in  which  they  were  built,  more 
than  a  century  ago.  To  the  small  casement  windows 
old  women  came  at  sound  of  the  fly  wheels,  or  stood 


72  Miss  Fingal 

in  the  doorways  looking  out  at  the  passing  stranger, 
shading  their  dim  eyes  with  wrinkled  hands. 

"Are  those  almshouses  ?"  Miss  Fingal  asked  the 
driver. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  that's  what  they  are.  There's  been 
talk  of  pulling  them  down,  but  I  don't  expect  they'll  do 
it  till  those  who  are  in  them  now  are  gone."  He  looked 
back  at  her  while  he  spoke. 

A  shadow  passed  over  her  face.  "They  look  very 
old,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.  "Stood  there  these  hundred  and  fifty 
years  and  more.  They  belong  to  the  parish,  but  there 
isn't  many  people  in  it,  and  they  are  scattered  about,  so 
there  hasn't  been  much  doing  up."  He  flicked  his  whip, 
and  they  went  on  for  a  bit.  Then  he  turned  and  looked 
at  his  fare  again.  "I  expect  you're  going  to  see  Mrs. 
Alliston  at  the  farm,  ma'am?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  see  her."  Miss  Fingal  was  sur- 
prised; but,  of  course,  everything  a  stranger  did  in  so 
small  a  place  was  known  or  guessed. 

"When  Mr.  Alliston  used  to  come  to  Leesbury  he 
talked  of  having  those  cottages  done  up  himself — but 
nothing  came  of  it."  The  old  man  flicked  his  whip 
again  and  the  horse  had  another  spasm  of  quickened 
pace.  A  whiff  of  violet  breath  stole  up  to  her.  The 
roots  had  been  sheltered  by  the  hedges  on  either  side; 
thrushes  and  blackbirds,  with  a  cheerful  note,  as  if  they 
recognised  that  the  worst  of  winter  might  be  gone 
already,  rose  from  them  and  greeted  her,  and  made 
more  definite  the  feeling  of  exaltation — the  joy  of  earth 
reaching  out  and  appealing  to  her  too. 

Less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther,  round  a  curve, 
and  towards  the  inwardness  of  the  landscape,  they  came 
upon  some  tarred  outbuildings  and  weather-beaten  hay- 
stacks ;  in  a  siding  at  the  top  of  the  road  a  couple  of 
farm-carts  rested  on  their  shafts;  and  a  long,  small- 
windowed,  whitewashed  house  was  to  be  seen  set  back 
some  little  way  and  approached  through  a  decaying 
wooden  gate  with  a  stiff-sounding  latch  and  a  clanging 
when  it  swung  back  on  its  rusty  hinges.  A  boy  opened 
the  gate;  they  went  up  the  gravelled  drive  and  stopped 


Miss  Fingal  73 

before  a  porch  that  had  seats  at  either  side  and  an  old- 
fashioned  bell  with  an  iron  pull  to  it.  A  long  wait,  then 
the  heavy  door  was  opened  by  a  buxom  woman,  who 
seemed  to  speak  to  the  door  or,  perhaps,  to  some  one 
behind  it,  before  she  attended  to  the  visitor.  "It's  no 
business  to  be  kept  shut,"  she  said,  "on  a  bright  day 
like  this.  We  want  air  in  the  place,  I'm  sure." 

Miss  Fingal's  heart  beat  quickly  as  she  asked  for  Mrs. 
Alliston. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Alliston's  here;  wait  a  bit  and  I'll 
tell  the  nurse."  She  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  which 
were  covered  with  red  drugget  and  had  very  bright  rods 
to  them;  they  suggested  that  Highbrook  Farm  had  an 
eye  to  lodgers.  "Janet,  are  you  there?"  she  called 
upwards.  "Here's  a  lady  to  see  Mrs.  Alliston." 

A  pleasant- faced  Scotch  girl  with  copper-coloured 
hair  appeared.  She  looked  like  a  marigold  in  an  old 
garden.  "Mrs.  Alliston's  at  home,"  she  said,  "but  I 
don't  know  whether  she'll  see  you " 

"Lady  Gilston  thought  I  might  come  and  see  her," 
the  gentle  voice  answered. 

"Oh,  if  it's  a  friend  of  Lady  Gilston  you  are,"  without 
much  cordiality,  "you'd  better  come  up."  With  some- 
thing akin  to  reluctance  she  led  the  way  to  a  room  on 
the  first  floor  at  the  other  side  of  the  house.  "I'll  tell 
her,"  she  said,  and  disappeared. 

Miss  Fingal  waited,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  her  heart  beating,  her  courage  ebbing.  A  cottage 
piano,  which  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  the  rest  of  the 
furniture,  was  open — a  Chopin  polonaise  on  its  music- 
stand  ;  a  box  of  books  from  a  library  was  by  a  round  table, 
that  had  been  pushed  probably  from  the  centre  to  one 
side;  in  a  corner,  on  a  chair  at  the  end  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sofa,  some  crochet  antimacassars  were  heaped 
as  if  they  had  been  collected;  facing  the  doorway  was 
a  mullioned  casement  window,  with  a  deep  sill  inside, 
and  close  to  it  was  a  wicker  chair  with  untidy  cushions, 
as  if  some  one  had  been  sitting  there  to  look  out  at  the 
garden  below. 

The  garden,  for  she  was  near  enough  to  the  window  to 
see  it,  had  an  old-world  look,  a  Dutch  pathway  going  up 


74  Miss  Fingal 

it,  a  privet  hedge  at  the  end  with  a  gate  in  the  centre. 
Beside  the  gate  was  a  lilac  bush,  brown  and  bare  like 
most  of  the  vegetation;  it  was  all  waiting.  A  little 
way  beyond  was  a  small  plantation ;  the  brown  branches 
were  so  dense  and  close  that  they  half  hid  the  outbuild- 
ings and  wooded  distances. 

A  door  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  was  opened  and 
a  slight  figure — a  girl,  for  she  might  still  be  called  one — 
stood  hesitating. 

"Yes?"  she  said  questioningly. 

"I    have    come — because " 

"They  only  said  a  lady."  She  came  forward,  her 
utterance  was  quick  and  the  voice  very  clear  and  sweet: 
it  could  so  evidently  be  tender.  "They  didn't  tell  me 
your  name?" 

"I  am  called  Aline  Fingal.  Lady  Gilston  thought 
I  might  come — I  hope  you  don't  mind." 

Mrs.  Alliston  held  out  her  hand.  "It's  nice  of  you. 
I  had  forgotten,  and  wondered  who  it  could  be.  Do 
sit  down — near  the  fire.  I  know  about  you  now,  you 
are  staying  at  the  White  Hart."  She  indicated  a  place 
on  the  sofa;  but  she  was  embarrassed  by  her  visitor's 
nervousness,  and  for  a  moment  they  were  silent. 

Then  Miss  Fingal  gathered  courage  and  looked  at 
her.  She  was  very  pale,  with  a  quantity  of  softly- 
twisted  hair  that  had  here  and  there  a  streak  of  gold,  or 
shaded  to  darkness.  But  the  dominant  thing  about  her 
was  the  tragedy  her  face  betrayed — a  remembrance  of 
happiness,  a  capacity  for  joy  that  had  been  buried  in 
an  agony  she  had  struggled  with  till  she  had  come 
through,  accepting  and  desperately  holding  on  to  all 
that  was  left  her,  bringing  with  her  the  radiance  that 
still  lingered  in  her  smile,  and  the  music  in  the  laughter 
which  seldom  came;  and  both  had  a  quality  of  sorrow 
in  them  that  smote  any  who  knew  her  history.  She  was 
obviously  weak  and  ill;  she  looked  as  if  she  were  being 
hunted  by  death,  trying  to  elude  it,  and  dreading  lest 
it  were  impossible  to  escape.  There  had  been  caution 
even  in  the  way  she  crossed  the  room.  "Cousin  Augusta 
told  me  that  the  cottage  at  Wavercombe  belonged  to 
you  now,  and  that  perhaps  I  should  see  you;  but  I 


Miss  Fingal  75 

understood  you  were  not  coming  till  Easter — if  you 
came  at  all." 

"I  didn't  want  to  stay  in  London  till  then." 

"But  why  didn't  you  go  to  dear  Briarpatch?  Waver- 
combe  has  such  lovely  walks,  and  you  can  see  the 
Surrey  hills — I  dream  of  them  sometimes." 

"Lady  Gilston  said  Leesbury  was  a  new  place — and 
you  were  here — and  I  wondered  if  I  might  come  and 
see  you."  Usually,  if  Miss  Fingal  said  little,  she  was 
diffidently  self-possessed,  but  now  she  could  hardly 
speak,  she  felt  like  an  intruder  in  spite  of  the  reassuring 
words. 

"Are  you  alone  at  the  White  Hart?"  Linda  asked. 
A  searching  expression  had  come  to  her  eyes  as  if, 
weary  of  seeing  things  that  were  sad  and  frightening, 
they  wondered  about  this  stranger  and  her  history. 

"Yes— alone." 

"And  why  have  you  come  to  see  me?"  It  was  asked 
very  softly — there  was  no  offence  in  the  question.  "I 
am  only  a  tiresome  crock  now." 

"I  thought  of  you  so  much  at  the  cottage — and  that 
perhaps  you  would  let  me  come,"  Miss  Fingal  answered. 

"Of  course  I  will  let  you  come,  and  I  shall  adore 
hearing  about  it,"  Linda  said  quickly.  "Don't  apologise 
for  so  lovely  a  kindness."  Her  lips  and  eyes  gave  out 
a  gay  desperate  little  laugh,  as  if  the  buried  youth  in  her 
remembered  its  own  and  rose  to  gather  a  vision  of  it. 

Her  visitor  was  startled  and  thought — "Oh,  but  she's 
beautiful,  she's  beautiful,"  and  aloud  she  said,  "I  knew 
— I  felt  you  had  been  happy  there." 

"Happy — yes,  I  was  dreadfully  happy,  and  then 
dreadfully  miserable."  The  last  words  were  said  with 
sudden  intensity,  they  seemed  to  escape  from  her.  She 
tried  to  cover  them  with  a  quick  question.  "Did  Mrs. 
Webb  wait  on  you  and  was  Emma  there?" 

"Yes,  they  were  both  there." 

"Dear  fussy  Mrs.  Webb.  Did  she  talk  to  you  about 
me?" 

"She  did  when  she  first  took  me  up  to  your  room — 
not  afterwards." 

"Oh!"     This   stranger  with  the  little  air  of  remote- 


j6  Miss  Fingal 

ness  and  silence,  had  a  delicate  soul,  Linda  thought. 
"Tell  me  why  you  are  all  alone  here?  Leesbury  is 
such  a  quiet  place — unless  you  golf,  of  course?" 

"Oh  no,  I  don't  golf — and  I  am  always  alone."  It 
was  so  natural  a  condition  to  her  that  she  was  almost 
surprised  at  the  question. 

"Even  when  you  are  not  at  the  'White  Hart'?" 

"Yes,  always."  Then  hurriedly  she  asked,  "Lady 
Gilston  said  you  had  two  children." 

"Yes,  they  are  babies  still.  Would  you  care  to  see 
them?" 

"I  should  like  to  see  them,"  Miss  Fingal  answered, 
constrained  by  politeness,  and  awkwardly  wondering  what 
she  could  say  to  them. 

Mrs.  Alliston  rose  suddenly,  and  stood  listening  as  if 
to  some  sound  that  took  no  account  of  her  visitor.  "I 
think  they  are  in  the  garden;  they  go  that  way  to  see 
the  cows  milked."  She  went  quickly  to  the  window  and 
pushed  it  open.  The  sunlight  poured  in  and  filled  the 
room.  "Oh  no — it's  too  late,  they  have  gone."  She 
turned  away  again,  but  the  window  remained  open. 

Miss  Fingal  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  had  escaped 
an  embarrassment  she  almost  dreaded.  People  were  so 
eager  about  children,  even  strange  children;  but  she 
was  half  afraid  of  them,  she  never  knew  what  to  say  or 
do.  With  an  idea  that  she  ought  to  show  some  interest 
in  these,  she  asked  the  obvious  question,  "What  are 
their  names?" 

"The  baby  is  Bridget,  and  the  boy  is  called  Sturdie, 
after  his  grandfather."  The  quick  movement  had  brought 
on  a  fit  of  coughing  and  a  struggle  for  breath. 

"Oh,  you  are  not  at  all  well."  Miss  Fingal  drew  back 
anxiously. 

"No,  I'm  not  well,  but  I  mean  to  get  well  here."  It 
was  said  with  a  note  of  determination.  "Shall  you 
stay  long?" 

"I  don't  know,"  helplessly,  "I  never  know.  It's  very 
comfortable,  and  it's  beautiful  air."  She  was  just  re- 
peating Lady  Gilston's  remarks,  afraid  of  having  to 
shorten  her  visit  because  of  the  silence  she  could  not 
help.  "I  wish  you  would  come  and  see  me  one  day," 


Miss  Fingal  77 

she  added  inconsequently,  knowing  while  she  said  it  that 
it  was  unlikely. 

"I  will  if  I  can,  but  I'm  not  able  to  walk  much. 
You  must  come  and  see  me  if  you  will — you  are  stronger 
than  I ' 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  very  strong.  I  don't  think  I  was  ever 
ill  in  my  life." 

"How  splendid!  You  will  be  able  to  walk  here — 
there's  a  short  way  across  the  fields,  past  the  back  of 
the  almshouses  where  the  old  women  live.  I  used  to 
potter  in  and  out  of  them  once.  We  stayed  here 
before — at  this  farm — soon  after  I  was  married — for  a 
week — and  we  lunched  at  the  inn  on  the  way  to  the 
links."  Then,  breaking  off  abruptly,  she  went  on, 
"Perhaps  you  will  come  again  in  a  day  or  two.  I 
should  so  like  you  to  see  the  babies, — no,  it  isn't  a  hint 
to  go — do  stay — it  was  only  a  little  outbreak  of  maternal 
vanity.  Are  you  fond  of  children?" 

"I  don't  know  any " 

"Oh !"  Linda  reached  out  a  hand  compassionately, 
for  the  words  and  the  forlorn  voice  touched  her.  Then 
with  a  little  sound  that  showed  the  question  had  been 
pent-up  in  her  heart,  she  said,  "But  you've  told  me 
nothing  about  the  cottage  yet.  I  heard  from  cousin 
Augusta  that  Mr.  Fingal  had  left  it  to  you.  I  wonder 
if  it  has  been  much  altered  since  we  were  there?" 

"No,  it  is  just  the  same — it  always  shall  be,"  Miss 
Fingal  answered,  excited  by  the  half-caress. 

"How  dear  of  you!"  She  stopped  for  a  moment, 
as  if  amused  at  her  recollections.  "You  see,  Sir  James 
is  very  kind — so  is  cousin  Augusta,  but  I'm  rather  afraid 
of  her.  She  is  a  very  definite  person,  I  couldn't  ask  her 
much,"  and  then  suddenly,  "Did  she  tell  you  about  me, 
that  I  had  divorced  my  husband?" 

"Yes,  she  told  me."  And  there  was  a  pause.  "I 
suppose  you  had  to  do  it."  Miss  Fingal  was  not  sure 
that  she  ought  to  add  anything,  or  that  divorce  was  a 
subject  for  discussion. 

The  clock  struck  and  she  rose.  "Perhaps  I  ought 
to  go,"  she  said,  longing  to  stay,  for,  in  spite  of  the 
awkwardness,  in  this  farmhouse  room,  sitting  by  this 


78  Miss  Fingal 

girl  who  was  battling  with  life  and  death,  she  felt  like 
a  ship  at  anchor  after  long  sailing — as  if  she  had  been 
waiting  for  this  meeting,  that  it  belonged  to  her  life,  to 
its  history. 

And  Linda  Alliston,  too,  seemed  to  divine  that  the 
strange  silent  woman,  half-paralysed  by  her  own  lone- 
liness, had  drifted  in  upon  her  for  some  reason  that  was 
presently  to  be  made  plain. 

"I  do  so  want  to  know  more  about  you — you  live  in 
our  cottage,  it  makes  you  so  interesting,  do  tell  me  a 
little  about  yourself,"  she  said.  "Why  are  you  alone?" 
She  pulled  her  guest  down  gently  to  the  sofa  again,  as 
if  the  object  of  the  visit  had  not  yet  been  accomplished. 

Miss  Fingal  raised  her  wondering  eyes,  and  Linda, 
looking  into  them,  felt  drawn  to  her  and  fascinated. 
"I  haven't  any  one  at  all  belonging  to  me,"  the  low 
voice  answered. 

"And  you  have  not  been  married — you  are  Miss 
Fingal?" 

"Yes,  Aline  Fingal." 

"Aline  is  such  a  sweet  name — it  seems  to  suit  you." 

"I  wish  you  would  call  me  by  it,"  in ,  a  hushed  voice, 
for  it  was  so  much,  so  daring  a  thing  to  ask.  "No  one 
in  the  world  does  that " 

"Oh,  but — I've  only  just  seen  you — I  should  be 
afraid."  She  looked  at  her  visitor  again  and  saw  en- 
treaty on  her  face.  "You  see  I  am  a  stranger  to  you," 

she  added  gently,  "and  yet "  then  tentatively, 

"Shall  I?" 

"I  thought  of  you  so  much  when  I  was  at  Waver- 
combe,  and  I  have  since,  that  I  don't  feel  as  if  you  are 
a  stranger.  You  are  not  one  in  my  thoughts." 

"Then  I  must,"  half  tenderly.  "I  think  it  is  right; 
for  we  are  both  young  and  too  lonely  to  be  formal,  and 
intimacy  isn't  made  up  of  many  meetings — is  it? — but 
often  of  some  undercurrents  that  have  met  and  perhaps 
been  seeking  each  other — in  a  wilderness,  or  Heaven 
knows  where — don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,"  Miss  Fingal  answered,  not  in  the  least  under- 
standing her. 

"I  have  sat  here  such  hours  on  hours— or  with  my 


Miss  Fingal  79 

arms  on  that  window-ledge,"  she  nodded  towards  it,  "or 
lying  on  this  old  sofa,  thinking  about  life  and  its  mysteries, 
till  sometimes  I've  felt  as  if  I  were  getting  through — 
through  to  the  centre  of  things,  just  for  a  moment,  then 
it  all  eludes  me;  but  I'm  talking  arrant  nonsense,  Aline. 
You  must  give  me  my  name  too,  you  know,  you  must 
call  me  Linda.  Now  tell  me  more  about  the  cottage, 
and  the  beloved  orchard  that  I  shall  never  see  again. 
We  were  going  to  make  a  paved  pathway  to  it." 

"I  know;  Webb  told  me.     He  is  making  it  now." 

"Making  it  now !  Oh,  you  are  a  positive  darling. 
Wasn't  Mr.  John  Fingal  very  fond  of  you?" 

"I  don't  think  he  could  have  been.  He  was  very 
kind."  The  remembrance  of  him  sent  her  back  into 
the  old  formula.  "I  hardly  ever  saw  him." 

"But  what  did  you  do  with  yourself  before  he  died? 
Were  all  your  nearer  people  dead?" 

"Oh  yes,  they  died  long  ago.  I  lived  for  eigfit  years 
alone  in  a  little  flat  in  Battersea." 

"You  poor  solitary  mouse.  And  where  do  you  live 
now  when  you're  not  at  Briarpatch?" 

"In  Bedford  Square." 

"Of  course.  He  did."  She  laughed  again,  the  gay 
little  laugh  that  came  from  a  spring  where  happiness 
had  dwelt;  for  she  remembered  John  Fingal  with  his 
smooth  parted  hair  and  cold  manner,  she  used  care- 
fully to  hide  out  of  his  way  when  he  came  to  Beech- 
wood.  "And  what  is  the  house  in  Bedford  Square 
like?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  large  and  very  silent.  The  people  who  lived 
in  it  are  dead."  She  seemed  to  be  there  while  she  spoke. 
"The  furniture  is  dead  and  cold  too:  you  can  tell  that  it 
belonged  to  the  people  of  long  ago." 

Linda  looked  into  Aline's  grey  eyes  again,  and  thought 
what  soft  lashes  they  had  for  their  setting,  and  she 
asked,  "There  are  old  servants,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh  yes,  and  they  are  very  kind.  They  have  been 
there  for  years.  But  they  are  downstairs,  except  when 
I  ring,  or  when  it  is  time  for  food  to  be  ready,  or  the 
lamp  to  be  carried  in — I  think  they  bring  it  early  because 
there  are  so  many  shadows."  She  stopped  for  a  moment. 


8o  Miss  Fingal 

"It  is  all  large  and  silent ;  I  often  feel  as  if  I  were  in  an 
empty  house — a  sort  of  caretaker " 

"She  is  like  an  empty  house  herself,"  Linda  thought, 
"of  which  her  consciousness  is  the  caretaker." 

"Or  perhaps  it  knows  that  it  is  near  the  British 
Museum — all  Bloomsbury  seems  to  feel  that,"  Aline 
went  on.  "When  I  lived  in  Battersea,  I  used  to  go 
sometimes  to  look  up  at  the  old  houses  in  Cheyne 
Walk.  I  think  they  remembered  things,  and  were  my 
friends;  but  the  houses  are  different  in  Bloomsbury, 
more  severe  and  colder,  and  deadness  is  everywhere; 
but  they  know — everything  knows — I  can  tell  it  some- 
times, not  always " 

"Aline!"  Linda  leant  forward.  "How  strange  you 
are!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  all  that,"  she  answered  humbly, 
as  if  recalled  to  herself.  "The  words  came  away  from 
me — I  heard  myself  saying  them."  She  stopped  for  a 
moment.  "I  think  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  she 
said,  "or  looking  for  you — I  felt  it  just  now  when  you 
spoke  of  people  not  being  strangers — for  it  is  easier 
to  say  things  to  you  than  to  any  one  I  ever  met." 

Linda  looked  wonderingly  at  this  strange  development 
of  her  visitor.  "It's  the  inner  communications  of 
thought,  the  ways  under  our  self-consciousness,"  she 
said,  "we  don't  know  what  dwells  in  them,  or  comes 
to  them.  We  know  so  little — so  little,"  she  added  pas- 
sionately. "I  never  used  to  understand  what  Dick  meant, 
all  his  eagerness  and  impatience,  while  I  just  laughed 
and  stood  still  and  lived  in  loving  him,  just  loving  him 
— it  was  enough."  Her  voice  was  full  of  tenderness. 
"He  sent  me  two  lines — that  was  all — asking  me  to 
forgive  him;  but  there  wasn't  anything  to  forgive — I 
want  you  to  understand  that,  for  we  are  going  to  know 
each  other,  you  and  I — I  feel  it — and  I  want  you  to 
know  it  from  me, — he  wasn't  to  blame,  my  splendid 
Dick."  She  got  up  abruptly  as  if  to  end  the  subject, 
crossed  the  room  and,  stopping  by  the  piano,  hesitated, 
then  turned  away  from  it.  "Tell  me  more  about 
yourself,"  she  said;  "I  should  like  to  know  the  things 
you  care  for.  Is  music  much  to  you?" 


Miss  Fingal  81 

"Yes — I  think  so;  but  Chopin  is  too  difficult,"  Miss 
Fingal  answered  diffidently,  thrown  back  on  herself 
by  the  sudden  change  of  tone.  "I  couldn't  play  that 
polonaise." 

"Some  one  said  once — it  was  one  of  the  new  poets,  I 
think — that  he  was  the  singer  of  unending  sadness,  even 
in  his  happiest  moods,  and  that  all  his  music  meant 
farewell."  Then  in  a  different  voice,  "I  hired  this  piano 
from  Great  Missenden.  It's  not  up  to  much,  but  I  like 
the  yellow  silk  in  the  front;  it's  the  colour  of  the  sun,  I 
tell  myself,  on  rainy  days.  .  .  .  And  books — do  you  read 
much  ?  Here  is  Browning " 

"He  is  difficult,  too.  I  never  could  understand 
him." 

"Dick  used  to  love  him  so.  He's  not  difficult  when 
you  are  over  five-and-twenty  and  have  felt  or  dreamt 
about  life  ...  or  suffered.  Pain  is  such  a  wonderful 
teacher;  if  I  had  suffered  before  I  knew  Dick  I  should 
have  been  better — it  came  too  late/'  She  clasped  her 
hands  together  on  the  top  of  her  soft  hair.  It  brought 
on  a  fit  of  coughing  that  exhausted  her.  She  sat  down 
again  and  rested  her  head  on  the  sofa  end. 

"Oh,  you  are  very  ill!"  Miss  Fingal  was  alarmed. 
"You  have  been  talking  too  much;  I  ought  to  have 
gone  before." 

"No,  I  have  loved  seeing  you.  You  have  done  me 
a  world  of  good ;  but  you  shall  go  now ;  I  must  lie 
down — you'll  be  comfy  at  the  White  Hart — they  are 
nice  people.  I'm  so  glad  you  came."  She  put  her 
feet  up  on  the  sofa,  resting  her  head  high  on  the 
cushion.  "Good-bye,"  she  said;  "but  come  again — not 
to-morrow — I  will  lie  low  all  day,  but  the  day  after. 
And  the  children  shall  be  here.  I  want  you  to  see 
them."  She  offered  her  face  to  be  kissed. 

Half-frightened,  unbelievingly,  wondering  if  she  had 
mistaken  the  sign,  Aline  leant  forward  to  her.  "No 
one  has  kissed  me  since  my  father  died,  nearly  ten 
years  ago,"  she  said — "and  he  very  seldom  did." 

"Oh!"  Linda  made  a  sound  of  sympathy  and  took 
her  hands  and  looked  at  her.  "Life  will  be  better  for 
you,"  she  said.  "I  feel  that  it  will — you  are  only  wait- 


82  Miss  Fingal 

ing."  She  let  go  the  hands.  Aline  Fingal  felt  as  if  just 
for  a  moment  a  light  had  been  thrown  across  the  road 
in  front  of  her. 

She  sent  the  fly  away  and  walked  back:  she  found 
the  path  across  the  fields,  by  the  long  narrow  gardens 
at  the  back  of  the  almshouses,  through  a  copse,  and 
so  out  to  the  main  road.  All  the  way  she  had  a 
confused  sense  that  the  visit  to  Highbrook  Farm  had 
changed  her,  that  it  was  the  great  event  of  her  life — 
greater  even  than  the  coming  of  uncle  John's  fortune. 
She  felt  bewildered,  intoxicated,  quickened  with  happi- 
ness that  was  only  subdued  and  held  in  check  by  that 
last  few  minutes  in  which  Linda's  weakness  had  been 
brought  home  to  her;  but  she  had  seen  so  little  illness 
in  her  life,  she  did  not  recognise  how  serious  it  was. 

"She'll  get  better,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  be  happy 
again — she  must."  She  remembered  the  two  people  she 
had  heard  while  she  sat  unseen  among  the  trees  at 
Wavercombe.  "Perhaps  Linda  and  Dick  will  make  it 
up,  as  they  did;  unless  the  divorce  makes  it  impossible. 
It  must  be  like  a  high  wall  between."  She  thought 
of  the  high  wall  round  Beechwood,  and  imagined 
herself  walking  beside  it,  on  to  the  cottage — the  cottage 
and  the  high  wall  round  Beechwood — and  Linda 
Alliston  at  the  Farm.  Her  thoughts  seemed  to  wander 
about  in  space  to  and  fro,  without  any  controlling 
power  from  her,  and  to  come  homing  back  as  birds 
do  that  have  seen  strange  places  of  which  they  cannot 
give  account. 


XII. 


THE  fly,  which  had  arrived  before  her,  had  been  closed 
and  was  waiting  outside  the  hotel.  The  door  was  open, 
and  a  woman  inside  leaning  forward  to  hear  what  a  man 
standing  by  it  was  saying  to  the  driver:  the  landlord  of 
the  hotel  and  the  ostler  stood  watching  and  interested. 
Miss  Fingal  heard  a  good-tempered  masculine  voice  say, 
"It's  only  a  mile,  you  know.  Get  there  as  fast  as  you 
can.  We  shall  not  stay  long." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him.  It  was  Jimmy  Gilston. 
He  recognised  her  at  once. 

"Hullo,  Bertha,  here  is  Miss  Fingal.  How  do  you 
do?"  he  said.  "We  heard  you  were  here  and  meant 
to  look  you  up  when  we  came  back  from  Highbrook 
Farm.  We  have  only  come  down  for  an  hour  or  two, 
and  nearly  missed  getting  this  precious  fly." 

Bertha  held  out  a  hand.  "I'm  awfully  glad  to  see 
you  at  last."  Her  voice  was  pleasant,  but  in  the  waning 
light  it  was  difficult  to  see  what  she  was  like.  "I 
thought  we  should  come  upon  you.  The  driver  tells  us 
he  took  you  to  see  Linda  Alliston.  How  is  she  ?" 

"She's  very  ill — and  I  fear  I  stayed  too  long." 

"That's  awkward.  We  are  going  abroad  directly, 
and  want  to  have  a  look  at  her  before  we  start,"  Jimmy, 
said.  "What  shall  we  do?"  he  asked  his  sister. 

"Let  us  stay  just  ten  minutes — we  had  better  go  at 
once  for  it  is  getting  late."  The  sun  had  set  half  an 
hour  before,  and  the  wintry  twilight  was  hurrying.  "Per- 
haps we  shall  see  Miss  Fingal  when  we  come  back?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Miss  Fingal  said.  "Do  come  and  have 
some  tea  in  my  sitting-room?"  She  nodded  to  the 
first  floor. 

83 


84  Miss  Fingal 

"That's  an  idea,"  Jimmy  answered.  "Three-quarters 
of  an  hour,  I  should  say,  perhaps  less,  and  we  will 
return  quite  ready  to  drink  tea  and  sit  over  your  fire  for 
another  three-quarters.  I  must  get  back  soon." 

"Jimmy  always  seizes  an  opportunity,"  Bertha 
laughed,  as  he  settled  down  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

The  driver  scrambled  slowly  to  his  place.  The  bony 
horse  struggled,  started  with  a  jerk,  and  the  fly  rattled 
away  along  the  main  road. 

Aline  Fingal  felt  as  she  went  up  the  twisty  staircase  as 
if  events  were  marching  towards  her.  A  cheerful  fire  was 
burning  in  her  room.  It  looked  comfortable  and  home- 
like. She  ordered  tea,  "and  a  good  many  things  with 
it,"  she  added  vaguely,  not  used  to  arranging  details. 
While  it  was  being  made  ready  she  went  to  the  next 
room,  took  off  her  wraps,  and  looked  at  herself  in  the 
glass.  A  light  seemed  to  be  shining  in  the  eyes  that 
were  usually  only  soft  and  vague — or  at  best  inquiring. 
She  put  her  face  nearer  to  see  herself  more  plainly. 

"My  hair  is  almost  the  same  colour  as — Linda's,  but 
hers  is  so  lovely,"  she  thought,  and  turned  away. 
There  was  another  glass,  a  long  one,  in  the  door  of 
the  wardrobe.  She  caught  the  contour  of  her  figure  as 
she  passed,  slim  and  even  graceful,  but  the  whole  of  her 
looked  demure,  almost  prim,  in  the  plain  black  dress 
she  still  wore  for  the  uncle  she  had  regretfully  never 
been  able  to  mourn.  She  stopped  and  considered  for 
a  moment.  There  was  a  short  chinchilla  stole  in  her 
trunk;  when  she  bought  it  she  had  realised,  though  it 
hadn't  mattered  to  her  then,  that  it  was  becoming. 
She  put  it  on  her  shoulders — the  coldness  of  the  even- 
ing served  as  an  excuse.  She  smiled  to  herself  as  she 
went  back  to  the  drawing-room.  An  elaborate  tea  was 
being  made  ready,  and  the  second  post  had  brought  her 
a  letter  that  had  been  set  against  her  place  at  the  head 
of  the  table.  It  was  only  from  Mrs.  Turner  asking 
about  the  paper  for  the  staircase,  and  whether  Miss 
Fingal  would  have  some  patterns  sent  down  to  her;  but 
it  made  her  feel  important,  it  was  another  new  experi- 
ence: "everything  is  happening  to-day,"  she  thought. 
She  went  to  the  window  to  watch  for  her  visitors,  but 


Miss  Fingal  85 

it  was  nearly  dark,  and  the  waiter  came  in  to  light  up 
the  room  and  draw  the  curtains.  "I'll  go  up  to  choose 
the  paper,"  she  said  to  herself,  thinking  it  would  be 
an  adventure. 

There  was  a  rumbling  in  the  distance,  the  fly  was 
returning.  Two  people  were  coming  to  tea — to  tea  with 
her! 

They  came  in,  depressed  by  their  visit  to  the  farm, 
but  determined  to  shake  off  a  gloomy  view  of  it.  "I'm 
glad  we  went,"  Jimmy  said.  "She  evidently  liked  seeing 
us,  and  we  were  careful  not  to  stay  too  long." 

Bertha  Gilston  was  tall  and  square-shouldered;  she 
had  a  pleasant  face,  a  little  weather-beaten  and  wind- 
blown, a  large  smile  that  wandered  up  the  rather  high 
cheek-bones  to  her  blue  eyes,  and  a  quantity  of  fair  hair 
untidily  done — wisps  of  it  strayed  over  her  ears  and  fell 
at  the  back  of  her  neck. 

"It's  awfully  nice  of  you  to  let  us  invade  you."  She 
threw  aside  her  wraps,  and  looked  amused  when  they 
fell  to  the  floor.  "I  wanted  to  go  and  see  you  all  the 
winter,  but  there  are  always  such  heaps  of  things  to  do. 
Besides,  I  didn't  know  whether  you  would  want  to  be 
burdened  with  a  stray  woman,"  she  said. 

"I  should  not  have  thought  it  a  burden,"  Miss 
Fingal  answered,  conscious  that  she  was  going  to  like 
this  new  acquaintance. 

The  waiter  brought  a  hot  dish,  and  lighted  the  spirit- 
lamp  under  the  kettle.  Jimmy  watched  him  with  keen 
interest.  "Bertha,"  he  said,  "we  are  in  for  a  feast; 
I'm  frightfully  hungry,  and  not  ashamed  to  be  greedy." 

Miss  Fingal  laughed  and  felt  that  she  was  happy.  A 
shaded  lamp  was  over  the  round  table  on  which  the  tea 
was  spread;  its  softened  light  fell  on  her  face  as  she  sat 
down  in  front  of  the  old-fashioned  japanned  tea-tray. 

"Ah,  now  I  can  see  you,"  Bertha  said.  "Father  told 
me  about  you,  of  course.  So  did  Jimmy;  he  has  wanted 
so  much  to  meet  you  again." 

"He  said  he  was  coming  to  Bedford  Square."  There 
was  a  little  pique  in  the  tone. 

"I'm  too  modest  to  go  and  see  a  young  lady  without 
i  direct  invitation,"  he  said  meekly. 


86  Miss  Fingal 

This  was  a  point  of  view  she  had  not  considered,  and 
the  trivial  obligations  of  a  hostess  made  a  direct  reply 
unnecessary. 

"A  country  meal,  especially  at  an  inn,  is  always  amus- 
ing," Bertha  said  when  it  was  over  and  they  had  drawn 
near  the  fire  with  a  comfortable  sense  of  repletion.  "I 
fear  we  mustn't  stay  very  long,  but  we  don't  want  to  go 
just  yet."  She  opened  a  silver  cigarette-case,  attached 
to  her  waist  by  a  chain ;  a  match-box  was  carried  in  the 
same  way  among  some  other  jingling  things.  "Won't 
you?"  she  asked,  holding  it  out. 

"No,  thank  you — I  don't  know  how." 

"How  funny;  every  woman  smokes  now.  It  smooths 
away  cares  and  wrinkles,  and  makes  one  even  oblivious 
of  bills." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like  it." 

"Perhaps  not.     Do  yea  mind  if  I  do?" 

"Oh  no — and  Mr.  Gilston  too,  won't  he?" 

"Of  course  he  will."  She  struck  a  match  vigorously, 
and  smoked  in  silence  for  a  minute  or  two;  she  was 
evidently  thinking  hard.  "Miss  Fingal,"  she  said,  "do 
tell  us  what  you  thought  of  Linda — I  feel  that  you  are 
going  to  be  intimate  with  her." 

She  wondered  how  much  of  Linda's  history  this 
woman — this  girl,  she  surprisedly  thought  her — really 
knew,  and  how  much  she  ought  to  be  told.  For  Bertha 
liked  her  already — and  felt  it  possible  to  like  her  a  great 
deal,  though  she  had  only  set  eyes  on  her  for  the  first 
time  an  hour  or  two  ago;  "one  can  always  tell,"  she 
thought.  "She  is  so  simple  and  reserved,  and  rather 
like  a  book  in  small  print  that  is  not  easy  to  read  at 
first  but  holds  one." 

"I  thought  she  seemed  very  ill." 

"Yes,  she  is  very  ill.  She  has  been  worried  to  death." 
She  smoked  in  silence  again  for  a  minute  or  two.  "I 
wish  we  weren't  going  abroad ;  we  start  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  That's  why  we  went  to  see  her  just  now.  I 
hate  leaving  her,  but  it's  lucky  that  you  are  here.  How 
long  do  you  think  you  will  stay?" 

"I  don't  know — "  hesitatingly,  "if  she  likes  me " 

Bertha  took  the  cigarette  from  her  mouth  and  looked 


Miss  Fingal  87 

at  the  lighted  end.  "My  dear,  she  loved  you  to-day, 
and  it  is  a  positive  comfort  to  her  that  you  have  Briar- 
patch.  I  wish  you  could  stay  till  we  come  back?  I 
expect  we  shall  be  away  a  month  or  six  weeks — is  that 
too  long?" 

"No;  it's  not  too  long.    I  want  to  stay." 

"And  you  will  go  and  see  her,  and  look  after  her  just 
a  little?" 

"I  will— I'll  do  anything." 

"How  sporting  of  you!"  Bertha's  pleasant  voice, 
always  a  little  throaty,  had  a  sigh  of  relief  in  it.  "I 
wonder  how  much  you  know  about  her?" 

"I  know — about  the  divorce." 

"Poor  darling,  her  marriage  turned  out  badly.  But 
I  don't  wonder  she  fell  in  love  with  Dick  Alliston — " 
she  stopped  abruptly — "he  was  a  wonderful  creature — 
he  is  still  occasionally." 

"Occasionally?"     She  was  puzzled. 

"Only  occasionally,"  Bertha  repeated  regretfully. 
She  paused  and  smoked  reflectively  for  a  minute. 
"I  think  you  ought  to  know  about  her,"  she  went  on. 
"They  were  very  much  in  love  with  each  other,  but  she 
cared  too  much  for  him — adored  him  and  showed  it, 
which  is  a  bad  thing  to  happen  to  any  man." 

"I  should  like  it  to  happen  to  me,"  Jimmy  said. 

"You  may  be  quite  certain  it  never  will,  you  dear 
old  idiot,  and  don't  be  a  nuisance — I  am  talking  to 

Miss  Fingal.  Dick  adored  her  at  first,  but "  she 

hesitated. 

"I  don't  know  what  he  is  up  to,"  Jimmy  said,  "but  I 
am  certain  that  he  never  meant  to  be  a  scoundrel.  I 
like  him  too,"  he  explained,  "but  occasionally  I  would 
give  a  good  deal  to  kick  him,  though  it  wouldn't  mend 
matters  and  he  might  kick  back.  I  have  been  very 
worried  about  the  whole  business,  for  it  was  I  who  first 
took  him  to  Beechwood.  He  saw  Linda,  and  they  fell  in 
love  with  each  other,  greatly  to  the  consternation  of  her 
mother  and  my  stepmother.  He  was  all  right,  but  he 
hadn't  much  money  from  their  point  of  view." 

"And  he  was  your  friend?"  Aline  was  trying  to 
grasp  the  situation. 


88  Miss  Fingal 

"I  knew  him  at  Oxford.  We  were  in  different  sets. 
He  did  a  good  deal  there  and  I  didn't.  I  was  shuffled 
out  and  sent  down,  but  not  before  he  had  got  me  out 
of  the  devil  of  a  scrape — which  was  all  the  more  to  his 
credit,  because  he  didn't  know  much  about  me.  I  tried 
to  prove  my  gratitude  by  introducing  him  to  Bertha. 
He  and  she  were  rather  thick  for  a  time " 

"Only  pals,"  Bertha  said  firmly,  "but  I  was  flattered. 
Any  man  can  flatter  a  woman,"  she  added,  with  a 
charming  apologetic  smile.  "He  was  at  the  Foreign 
Office — asked  everywhere — and  he  cut  heaps  of  things  to 
come  up  to  my  little  flat  and  talk  to  me  and  the  people 
I  like — people  who  write  or  paint  or  discuss  things, 
and  day-dream  about  themselves  and  their  doings — " 
She  took  out  another  cigarette.  "Of  course  I  was 
flattered.  A  man  who  knew  everybody,  whose  people 
were  somebodies,  who  had  done  brilliantly  at  Oxford; 
a  good-looking,  contradictory  creature,  who  would  do 
— you  never  quite  knew  what  next — "  She  stopped  to 
look  at  her  cigarette  again. 

"And  he  and  Linda  were  married?"  Miss  Fingal 
was  quite  eager. 

"And  wildly  happy — for  a  time.  They  had  a  flat  in 
London  and  went  out  immensely.  But  Linda  wasn't 
strong  enough  to  bear  it  long.  Her  mother — Lady 
Hester,  you  know — took  herself  and  her  aquiline  nose — 
it's  just  like  my  stepmother's — to  the  south  of  France. 
I  dare  say  she  borrowed  a  large  sum  from  father  first — " 
it  was  said  without  a  shred  of  malice,  only  with  amuse- 
ment at  the  retrospect,  "he  was  always  a  perfect  lamb 
about  money.  She  gave  the  cottage  to  Linda.  They 
had  musical  people  down  at  first — Linda  plays  beautifully 
— but  Dick  was  bored  with  them.  By  the  way,  did 
you  come  across  an  absurd  creature  at  Wavercombe 
called  Cyril  Batson?" 

"Oh  yes."  Miss  Fingal  smiled  and  looked  up.  The 
light  was  falling  on  her  hair,  quiet  humour  was  in 
her  eyes,  and,  for  a  moment,  it  struck  her  guests 
that  if  her  face  was  not  pretty  it  was  arresting. 

"She  wants  illuminating,  something  put  into  her," 
Bertha  thought.  "A  switch  turned  on  would  do  it 


Miss  Fingal  89 

Perhaps  it  will  come  in  the  shape  of  a  man,  who 
knows? — He  came  to  see  you?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  He  came  with  his  aunt,  in  a  beautiful  red-and- 
white  car." 

"Of  course  he  did,"  Bertha  laughed.  "Dick  and 
Linda  were  horribly  bored  by  him — the  funny  thing 
is  that  he  puts  on  a  special  pose  at  Wavercombe. 
When  he  comes  up  to  my  flat  he  is  quite  different;  I 
should  shake  him  if  he  wasn't." 

Miss  Fingal  was  not  at  all  interested  in  Cyril  Batson. 
"Oh,  do  go  on  about  Linda — and  Mr.  Alliston,"  she 
said. 

"Then  they  had  the  writing  people  down,  and  Linda 
was  eager  about  poetry  and  books;  but  only  because 
Dick  was.  He  grew  tired  of  the  Foreign  Office,  so  they 
went  off  to  Normandy,  came  back,  and  declared  they 
were  going  to  live  quietly  at  the  cottage  for  the  rest  of 
their  lives.  But  he  couldn't  settle  down.  He  went  up 
to  London  about  some  electrical  thing  he  had  invented — 
something  that  occurred  to  him  at  Oxford.  He  gave 
it  away  to  a  man  who  took  out  a  patent  and  made  a 
fortune.  Dick  made  nothing  by  it,  and  said  it  didn't 
matter  so  long  as  the  thing  was  done, — so  like  him. 
He  wrote  some  political  articles  that  made  a  stir  because 
of  their  audacity,  and  a  post  was  made  for  him  in 
Whitehall." 

"And   Linda?" 

"Stayed  at  the  cottage  alone — except  when  he  rushed 
down  only  to  rush  off  again.  He  got  into  a  fast  set — it 
amused  him  for  a  little  while." 

"That  precious  Lady  Violet  Horton,"  Jimmy  put  in. 
"You  know  who  she  is?" 

"She  was  one  of  the  Aston  girls,"  Bertha  explained 
when  Aline  had  shaken  her  head.  "She  married  Sir 
Thomas  Horton;  he  is  a  stupid  man  and  she  was  bored, 
so  she  picked  up  with  Cissie  Repton  and  a  very  queer 
lot — and  Dick.  Linda  lived  in  a  dream  with  her  baby, 
and  just  adored  him  whenever  he  appeared.  Tommy 
Horton  disliked  the  way  his  wife  went  on  generally,  and 
there  were  all  sorts  of  rows.  Dick  did  what  he  could  to 
put  matters  right,  and  Cissie  Repton  fell  in  love  with 


9O  Miss  Fingal 

him — with  Dick,  I  mean — probably  because  he  treated 
her  with  his  usual  don't-careness — don't-careness  for 
women,  I  mean." 

"But  who  is  she?"  Miss  Fingal  asked.  "I  don't 
know."  This  talk  made  her  feel  as  if  she  had  been 
invited  to  look  through  a  chink  at  a  very  strange 
world. 

"Of  course,  you  don't."  Bertha  brushed  the  ash 
from  the  end  of  her  cigarette  with  her  little  finger. 
"She  is  a  music-hall  celebrity  who  makes  tons  of  money. 
She  is  pretty  and  men  fall  in  heaps  before  her,  but  she 
doesn't  take  up  with  any  one  long — as  soon  as  she  can 
get  a  man  she's  bored  by  him,  sends  him  away,  and 
wants  another." 

"Oh!"  The  novels  she  had  read  at  Battersea  went 
hazily  through  Miss  Fingal's  mind;  it  occurred  to  her 
that  after  all  they  might  have  some  likeness  to  real 
life. 

"I  expect  she  enjoys  it,"  Bertha  said  thoughtfully. 
"She's  not  refined  or  educated,  as  many  of  them  are, 
but  she's  fascinating.  I  felt  it  myself  from  the  fourth 
row  of  stalls  the  other  night.  She  can't  dance;  she 
does  a  few  steps,  stops  and  laughs,  and  looks  up  for 
applause " 

"And  gets  it  too,  damn  her — I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss 
Fingal,"  Jimmy  said,  "but  one  must  use  appropriate 
words." 

"And  she  can't  sing,"  Bertha  went  on.  "She  has 
the  voice  of  a  feeble  thrush  with  a  bad  cold,  and  her 
songs  are  silly;  but  somehow  the  notes  are  fresh  and 
sweet  and  one  listens.  She  gets  through  a  verse  and 
smiles  and  looks  up  for  applause  again — and  gets  it.  Vio- 
let Horton  had  a  quarrel  with  her  husband,  went  off  to 
Paris  with  Cissie  Repton — who  is  known  as  Cherry  Ripe 
among  her  intimates.  He  and  Dick  went  to  the  rescue. 
And  how  the  rest  happened  I  don't  know.  But  Cherry 
Ripe  somehow  got  hold  of  Dick,  and  he  stayed  behind  in 
Paris  with  her  when  the  Hortons  came  back.  Then  Lord 
Stockton  came  on  the  scene " 

"He's  a  long,  languid,  virtuous  cuss,"  Jimmy  put  in, 
"all  over  the  place  trying  to  convert  everybody.  I 


Miss  Fingal  91 

should  never  be  surprised  at  anything  he  did.  He  went 
to  Beechwood  and  said  that  Linda — she  is  his  cousin 
— was  pure  and  beautiful  and  ought  to  be  separated 
from  Dick  who  was  vile;  and  somehow  the  divorce  was 
managed.  I  expect  the  whole  thing  was  a  plot  between 
her  relations — I  mean  my  father's  wife  and  her  mother, 
who  never  liked  Dick — and  no  doubt  they  lied  all 
round:  that  type  of  woman  thinks  lying  right  when  it's 
convenient." 

"Anyhow,"  Bertha  went  on,  "Linda  has  broken  her 
heart;  she  left  the  cottage  and  hid  herself." 

"But  her  mother?" 

"She  never  cared  for  any  one  but  herself,  and  was 
always  on  a  money  hunt,  so  she  went  back  to  the  Winter 
Palace  Hotel  at  Mentone — to  be  near  Monte  Carlo. 
Perhaps  she  thought  that,  if  Linda  got  a  divorce  from 
Dick,  she  might  marry  Edward  Stockton  in  the  end. 
But  of  course  she  wouldn't,  and  he  is  going  to  marry 
a  Girton  girl  who  took  a  wonderful  degree." 

"He  won't  like  it,"  Jimmy  put  in. 

"And  Linda  has  her  children,  but  there's  nothing  in 
the  world  before  her  except  the  probability  that  she  will 
go  out  of  it  and  leave  them." 

"She  ought  to  have  had  better  luck,  poor  dear," 
Jimmy  said  feelingly. 

"Don't  you  think  it  possible  she  can  get  well?"  Aline 
asked. 

Bertha  gave  a  little  shrug.  "The  doctor  was  leaving 
as  we  arrived  at  the  farm  just  now.  We  asked  him  if 
there  was  any  chance  for  her." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  gave  a  shrug,  and  said,  'Well ' " 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  her — I  would  do 
anything  in  the  world — give  her  back  the  cottage." 
Aline  Fingal's  low  voice  sounded  almost  passionate.  "I 
wish  I  could  die  in  her  place  and  give  her  my  life  to 
live  with." 

"She  has  life  enough,"  Bertha  said  wearily,  "but  she 
hasn't  physical  strength  enough  to  keep  hold  of  it.  She 
told  me  she  felt  that  to-day.  It  was  so  strange  to  hear 
her  going  over  one  or  two  of  Dick's  old  arguments, 


92  Miss  Fingal 

when  he  was  in  the  philosophical  stage.  But  it's 
wonderful  of  you  to  care  so  much." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  Jimmy  said,  and  surveyed  Miss  Fingal 
approvingly  through  the  pince-nez  that  guarded  his 
kindly  eyes.  "I  knew  you  were  the  right  sort  that 
night  at  the  Bendish's. 

She  looked  back  at  him  courageously  and  liked  him. 
„  Something,  even  his  loose  mouth  and  his  evident  liking 
for  good  food  and  ease,  suggested  that  he  was  very 
human.  He  was  vulgar,  but  there  are  so  many  varieties 
of  vulgarity,  and  they  have  to  be  endured:  even  she  had 
realised  that.  "Don't  you  think  her  mother  would  come 
to  her  if  she  knew  how  ill  she  was?"  she  asked  him. 

"I  don't  think  Linda  wants  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
there's  nothing  to  be  done  except  to  wait."  He  looked 
at  the  clock.  "I  think  we  ought  to  be  going,"  he  turned 
to  Bertha.  "There's  a  train  in  about  twelve  minutes, 
and  a  man  may  turn  up  at  my  rooms  this  evening." 

She  searched  for  her  wraps.  "But  you  have  told  us 
nothing  about  yourself,  Miss  Fingal.  We  were  awfully 
amused,"  she  went  on,  with  her  soft  pleasant  laugh 
again,  "when  we  heard  that  John  Fingal  had  died 
leaving  a  fortune  to  a  lonely  young  woman.  I  went  to 
your  Bedford  Square  house  once,  with  my  father.  It 
looked  like  a  sepulchre  that  wanted  whitening " 

"It's  being  done  up,"  its  owner  interrupted;  "it  is 
having  electric  light  put  in,  and  the  staircase  is  to  be 
papered." 

"That  will  improve  it,  but  you  can't  live  in  Bedford 
Square  all  your  days.  And  how  will  you  spend  your 
money  ?" 

This  was  a  point  of  view  she  had  not  considered, 
"I  don't  know  yet,"  she  answered. 

"Well — I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,  of  course — but  you 
might  set  up  an  orphanage  or  a  lunatic  asylum  or  some 
sort  of  crank  meeting-place?"  Jimmy  suggested. 

"I  don't  want  to  do  that,  I  want  to  do — I  don't 
know  what  yet — I  am  waiting  to  find  out."  Some  newly 
awakening  consciousness  in  her  seemed  to  say  it. 

They  were  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then  Bertha 
buttoned  up  her  coat  and  pulled  on  her  gloves:  she 


Miss  Fingal  93 

looked  thoroughly  untidy  and  good-humoured,  with  still 
more  wisps  of  hair  straggling  over  her  neck  and  ears, 
but  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  go  towards  a  looking- 
glass.  "Well,  anyhow,  try  to  do  something  amusing," 
she  said.  "For  instance,  you  might  get  married." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  Miss  Fingal  answered.  "Besides, 
there  isn't  any  one  who  wants  to  marry  me,"  she  added 
simply. 

"You  might  marry  me,"  Jimmy  suggested,  "but  I 
don't  think  you'd  like  it,  any  more  than  Stockton  will 
like  his  Girton  girl." 

"No,  she  wouldn't,"  Bertha  said,  "I  can  tell  her  that. 
You  mustn't  mind  anything  he  says,  Miss  Fingal,  he's 
utterly  hopeless." 

"Well,  come  along  if  we're  to  catch  that  train,"  he 
fidgeted.  "It  will  take  us  at  least  three  and  a  half 
minutes  to  reach  the  station.  Good-bye,  Miss  Fingal, 
glad  we  came;  we'll  do  it  again,  and  thank  you  very 
much — awfully  good  tea.  I  shall  present  myself  at 
Bedford  Square  and  persuade  you  to  come  for  a  spree 
with  us  when  we  are  back — that  music-hall.  We'll  go 
and  hear  Cherry  Ripe." 

"No !"  she  said  quickly,  "I  couldn't  do  that." 

"What  did  you  think  of  her?"  Jimmy  asked  when 
he  had  closed  the  door  of  the  carriage  they  easily  had  to 
themselves  in  the  half-empty  train. 

"I  liked  her." 

"She's  not  a  bad  sort,"  he  allowed. 

"Linda  seems  fascinated  by  her." 

"It  is  curious,  for  they  are  not  a  bit  alike."  He 
stopped  for  a  moment,  half  hesitating,  before  he  went 
on.  "I  wanted  to  get  back,  because  Alliston  may  drop 
in  to-night." 

Bertha  was  never  surprised.  She  opened  the  silver 
case,  took  out  the  inevitable  cigarette  and  struck  a 
match.  "I  thought  you  hadn't  seen  him  for  years," 
she  said. 

"I  haven't.  But  it  has  been  weighing  on  my  mind 
lately  that  I  didn't  half  appreciate  all  he  did  for  me 
when  he  pulled  me  out  of  the  mire  by  the  scruff  of  my 


94  Miss  Fingal 

neck.  I  believe  I  thought  I  had  sufficiently  proved  my 
gratitude  by  taking  him  to  see  you." 

"How  sweet  of  you,"  she  laughed. 

"Probably  I  thought  he  would  marry  you." 

"My  dear  Jimmy,"  she  answered  as  she  flicked  the 
ash  from  her  cigarette  out  of  the  window,  "no  one 
wants  to  marry  me.  I  am  a  pal,  a  friend,  the  sort  of 
woman  a  man  chums  with — and  that's  all." 

"Does  it  satisfy  you?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"Perfectly.     The  other  thing  would  bore  me." 

"You  are  a  very  sensible  woman.  It  would  bore  me 
too.  All  the  same,  when  we  come  back  I  shall  probably 
ask  Miss  Fingal  if  she  will  have  me." 

"She  wouldn't  look  at  you."  Bertha  was  almost 
surprised. 

"Of  course  she  wouldn't — or  I  shouldn't  ask  her." 

"Then  why,  my  dear  idiot,  why?" 

"It's  the  governor's  idea,  and  he  worries  and  won't  be 
happy  till  she  has  sent  me  about  my  business.  It  will 
amuse  me  to  hear  what  she  says,  and  show  him  that  if 
young  women  with  money  won't  look  at  me  something 
else  must  be  done." 

"Why  did  you  suddenly  ask  Dick  to  come  and  see 
you?" 

"I  owe  him  some  money — borrowed  it  years  ago." 

"And  why  didn't  you  pay  him  back?" 

"He  never  seemed  to  want  it — never  came  near  me — 
and  we  never  worried  about  money."  He  was  silent  for 
a  minute  or  two.  "I  have  behaved  badly  and  know  it, 
so  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  In  a  sense  Alliston 
is  responsible,  for  though  I  played  the  fool  at  Oxford 
before  I  knew  him  I  did  it  on  the  usual  lines.  After- 
wards, being  a  young  ass,  I  proceeded  to  imitate  him  as 
far  as  it  was  possible,  and  had  a  shy  at  every  sort  of 
experience  of  which  I  got  a  chance.  But  it  has  meant 
having  a  good  time — which  is  the  main  thing  in  life." 

"And  what  about  the  money  you  owe  him?" 

"It  has  bothered  me  lately,  and  I  thought  I  should 
like  to  see  him,  so  it  struck  me  I  would  ask  him  if  he'd 
come  round  to  my  rooms.  The  governor  has  given  me 
a  cheque  for  five  hundred  for  our  jaunt.  I  want  to  pay 


Miss  Fingal  95 

him  back  the  couple  of  hundred  I  owe  and  we  will  put 
the  screw  on  a  bit,  if  you  don't  mind:  go  second-class — 
which  I  prefer  myself — and  avoid  staying  at  any  hotel 
that  calls  itself  a  palace." 

"Of  course.  I  hate  stuffy  first-class  and  big  hotels. 
But  you  have  been  a  thorough  pig,  Jimmy.  You  ought 
to  have  paid  Dick  back  when  he  got  married — somehow." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  he  answered  reflectively,  "but 
I  never  understood  money — always  had  it,  and  thought 
it  my  duty  to  spend  it." 

"And  Dick  is  hard  up?" 

"I  heard  so,  but  it  mayn't  be  true.  He  has  got  hold 
of  a  job  in  Whitehall,  and  there  is  some  idea  of  his  going 
into  Parliament  when  the  divorce  business  has  blown 
over — an  easy  seat.  Those  articles  of  his  are  not  for- 
gotten yet,  and  I  believe  he  is  an  admirable  speaker. 
I  heard  that  he  used  to  talk  about  the  universe  and 
so  on  at  the  Union  at  Oxford." 

"Didn't  you  belong  to  it?" 

"Bless  you,  they  didn't  want  me.  It  was  a  great 
mistake  sending  me  to  Oxford  at  all.  Our  highly  re- 
spectable middle-class  family  has  been  demoralised  by 
prosperity,  and  inconvenienced  by  the  governor  marrying 
a  woman  with  a  pedigree." 

Bertha  reflected  for  a  minute.  "I  agree  with  you  in 
what  you  have  not  said."  She  looked  up  with  one  of 
her  quick  smiles.  "I  was  thoroughly  wretched  in  the 
big  house  in  Portland  Place,  and  I  am  thoroughly 
content  now  that  I  have  the  flat  and  manage  to  earn 
a  bit.  I  believe  there's  no  life  like  the  work  life." 

"I  dare  say.  But  loafing  and  loose  cash  have  their 
merits." 

They  separated  at  Baker  Street.  "I  won't  ask  you 
to  come  back  with  me,"  he  said.  "I  want  Alliston  to 
myself." 

"Of  course  you  do,"  she  answered.  "But  give  him 
my  love,  and  say  I  should  like  to  see  him." 


XIII. 

JIMMY'S  lodgings,  they  called  themselves  chambers,  were 
high  up  in  one  of  the  narrow  streets  that  connect  the 
Embankment  with  the  Strand — they  were  in  the  end 
house  nearest  the  river,  and  had  windows  facing  both 
ways.  He  could  hear  the  rumble  of  the  traffic  along 
the  Embankment  and,  without  rising  from  his  chair,  see 
the  trees  that  screened  it  and  the  farther  side  of  the 
river — the  side  that  is  still  unkempt  and  picturesque: 
if  he  craned  his  neck  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Cleopatra's 
Needle.  In  his  small  untidy  sitting-room,  in  the  corner 
between  the  two  windows,  was  a  roll-top  writing-table; 
over  the  mantelpiece  three  shelves  that  stretched  the 
whole  length  of  the  wall,  books  in  the  middle,  at  one 
end  cigarette-boxes  and  a  pipe  rack  (Jimmy  despised 
cigars),  a  siphon,  whisky,  and  Benedictine  bottles;  at  the 
other  end,  boxing-gloves  and  a  medley  of  odds  and  ends. 
On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  a  heavy  leather-covered 
easy-chair,  a  sofa  that  matched  them  on  one  side;  in 
the  centre  of  the  room  a  small  round  table  on  which 
presumably  was  served  any  meal  for  which  he  did  not 
wander  forth.  It  all  looked  comfortable  and  suggested 
that  its  tenant  was  a  commonplace  easy-going  young 
man  who  smoked  and  lounged,  frequented  restaurants, 
and  occasionally — hence  the  open  roll-top  table — forced 
himself  to  do  a  little  work. 

A  fire  was  burning  brightly  when  he  arrived  from 
Leesbury,  the  evening  paper  was  on  the  table;  there 
were  slippers  by  the  fender;  evidently  the  service  in  the 
chambers  was  fairly  decent.  He  switched  on  the  light 
and  left  the  curtains  and  blinds  undrawn;  there  was 
no  one  to  overlook  him,  and  he  liked  to  stand  and  watch 

96 


Miss  Fingal  97 

the  cars  moving  like  great  insects  along  the  wide  road 
beneath,  and  the  lights  of  the  slower  river  craft.  To 
Jimmy,  life  and  movement  were  of  supreme  interest;  as 
far  as  possible  he  liked  it  to  be  natural  or,  as  he  would 
have  put  it,  unadulterated.  He  disliked  fuss  and  trap- 
pings and  shams — off  the  stage.  An  artistic  room  would 
have  made  him  impatient  as  well  as  uncomfortable,  and 
he  would  not  have  changed  his  present  surroundings  for 
the  best  rooms  in  St.  James's  Street,  nor  a  house  in 
Mayfair:  either  would  have  bored  him  after  the  first 
curiosity  and  inspection,  and  interfered  with  the  chastity 
of  his  language. 

He  had  time  to  kick  off  his  boots  and  look  at  the  late 
news  before  he  heard  a  crisp  quick  ring  at  the  outside 
bell. 

Dick  Alliston  entered  with  his  head  erect  and  a  hesita- 
tion that  was  pleasantly  defiant  in  his  manner.  He 
looked  young  and  as  if  time  would  have  no  power  to 
take  his  youth  from  him;  he  had  very  bright  eyes 
with  a  questing  expression,  as  if  he  knew  of  a 
splendour  far  ahead  that  he  was  impatiently  seeking. 
And  the  charm  of  his  voice,  fresh  and  eager  as  his 
eyes,  suggested  that,  no  matter  what  he  had  done,  he 
was  incapable  of  meanness  and  somehow  acquitted  by 
his  conscience — that  he  had  probably  been  impelled  by 
a  spirit  of  adventure,  not  by  viciousness  or  weakness. 
Curiously,  with  all  this,  in  repose  his  face  had  a  dis- 
appointed expression,  till  suddenly,  as  if  a  flashlight 
passed,  it  was  lighted  up  and  he  recovered  the  joy  of 
earth  and  the  longing  for  the  hidden  achievement  that 
seemed  possible  if  he  could  but  reach  to  it. 

He  gave  a  quick  glance  round  the  room.  "Oh,  this 
is  it;  I  didn't  know  where  you  were  till  I  had  your 
note,"  he  said.  "You  look  comfortable." 

"I  am,"  Jimmy  was  laconic  as  usual. 

"Such   a  good   pitch — only  the   sky   to   look   in,   and 
everything    to    look    out    at;    and    the    tram-cars    and 
Cleopatra's   Needle   each   represent   a   great   civilisation, 
at  opposite  end  of  time." 
The  head  and  tail  of  it?" 

Alliston  turned  sharply  from  the  window.     "I  should 


98  Miss  Fingal 

have  come  before  if  I  had  known  you  would  see  me  and 
not  blaspheme." 

"Why  should  I?" 

"Oh,  I'm  supposed  to  be  a  scoundrel  and  the  rest." 

"I  may  be  one  myself  some  day — who  knows?  I've 
been  a  fool,  which  is  the  usual  alternative." 

"But  why  did  you  want  to  see  me?  I  have  been 
looking  back  all  day — and  feeling  like  Lot's  wife."  He 
crossed  the  room  twice,  restless  and  uneasy,  before  he 
said,  almost  vehemently,  "Do  you  know  how  Linda  is? 
I  was  going  to  write  to  Bertha;  then  I  heard  from  you 
and  thought  you  would  probably  know." 

"I  saw  her  this  afternoon.     She's  ill." 

"Very?" 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  Jimmy  answered  slowly. 

"I  expect  I've  killed  her."  Alliston  ground  his  teeth 
and  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  one  of  the  chairs  by  the 
fire. 

"I  should  say  you've  helped." 

"And  there's  nothing  I  can  do — she's  so  far  behind. 
And  the  children?  Did  you  see  them?" 

"Yes ;  good  little  kids,  I  rather  liked  them." 

Alliston  got  up.  "I  want  to  see  them — I  must  in 
the  future.  I  should  like  to  have  them,  though  God 
knows  whether  it  would  be  good  for  them,  or  what  I 
should  do  with  them."  He  crossed  the  room  again, 
and  stood  looking  at  the  books,  took  down  two  or  three 
and  contemptuously  put  them  back.  "What  stuff  you 
read!" 

"It  suits  me,"  Jimmy  answered;  then  with  convic- 
tion, "Look  here,  Dick,  you  mustn't  attempt  to  interfere 
with  Linda  and  the  children." 

"I  don't  mean  to  interfere,  though  I  want  them.  If 
leaving  them  alone  is  a  mistake,  it  will  be  the  penalty  of 
what  I  have  done  to  her,  and  they'll  pay  it  as  well  as  I 
— it  generally  goes  that  way." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"There  are  the  larger  issues,  the  great  distances,  the 
ultimate  gain.  The  children  may  be  fools,  or  criminals, 
or  geniuses,  or  the  world's  deliverers — if  the  world  wants 
deliverers — that  sort  of  thing  shouldn't  be  thwarted  by 


Miss  Fingal  99 

one  individual,  by  their  hanging  on  to  her  or  hanging 
on  to  me.  But  the  whole  thing  is  intangible,  and  human 
capacities  are  so  fettered  that  one  never  knows — and  we 
are  talking  rot — at  least  I  am.  He  looked  up  with  an 
eager  boyish  expression  in  his  eyes.  "Where  is  she?" 

"At  Highbrook  Farm." 

"Highbrook  Farm  of  all  places!"  He  walked  across 
the  room  again,  as  if  the  movement  helped  him.  "We 
stayed  there  once  for  a  week.  I  used  to  go  to  the  links 
in  the  morning,  and  she  went  in  and  out  among  the  old 
women  at  the  almshouses :  they  loved  her,  everything 
did — she  was  so  pretty  no  one  could  help  it." 

"I  know — "  Jimmy  answered.  "I  even  put  up  with 
my  stepmother  for  her  sake — that  was  before  you  came 
on  the  scene,  damn  you!"  he  added  tenderly,  "when 
she  was  a  leggy  little  girl  of  ten  at  Wavercombe." 

Dick  stopped  and  considered  for  a  moment.  "I  hated 
the  people  at  Wavercombe,  but  the  happiest  hours  of  my 
life  were  spent  at  the  cottage,  life  at  its  best — when  it 
was  nectar." 

"You  might  have  been  having  it  now,  nectar  included." 

"One  doesn't  want  it  always.  It  wasn't  satisfying 
enough  to  last.  I  had  to  go  on  farther — she  stayed 
behind." 

"Why  didn't  you  take  her  with  you?" 

"She  didn't  see  it.  She  wanted  to  stay  for  ever  at 
the  cottage — the  comfort  and  love-making  of  life,  bearing 
a  child  now  and  then,  and  being  generally  adorable.  I 
could  no  more  be  content  with  it  for  ever  than  I  could 
remain  young  always.  Happiness  can  be  overrated — 
that  sort  of  comfortable  happiness — a  woman  to  love, 
enough  money  and  nothing  to  do.  The  best  side  of  me 
lazily  worshipped  her,  but  the  best  side  of  a  man  isn't  the 
whole  of  him,  and  the  other  side  chafed,  and  became 
curious  and  restless." 

"In  fact,  she  was  too  good  for  you." 

"That's  it,  Jimmy.  You  see,  we  had  talked  out  every- 
thing, and  agreed  on  too  many  things.  She  always 
agreed  about  anything  that  was  my  idea.  There  were 
no  surprises  in  her,  and  when  the  talk  was  over  she  had 
no  curiosity  about  the  things  we  had  discussed — she  left 


ioo  Miss  Fingal 

it  at  that.  She  wanted  nothing  different  in  her  life, 
nothing  disturbed:  but  one  can't  read  the  same  book 
over  and  over  countless  times,  no  matter  how  nice  it  is, 
unless  one's  a  monk  or  a  country  parson,  or  for  ever  go 
on  looking  at  a  thing  that  is  beautiful  but  never  changes. 
I  wanted  to  see  more — know  more — slake  my  hunger  in 
other  directions,  to  satisfy  it — and  broke  away.  I  adored 
her,  but  it  was  no  good.  I  love  her  still — other  women 
have  only  been  experiments — but  I  couldn't  go  back  and 
live  the  same  sort  of  life  with  her  and  be  content — 
it  was  a  life  without  roots  or  growths,  the  bloom  of  a 
summer  that  came  to  an  end,  and  I  went." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  got  much  out  of  the  music- 
hall  lady?" 

He  made  a  sound  of  scorn.  "She  was  just  by  the 
way;  she  lifted  a  latch,  that  was  all.  I  didn't  mean  it 
to  come  to  what  it  did;  and  I  thought  Linda  would 
never  know,  which  is  what  one  always  thinks — men  are 
frightful  skunks,  if  they  go  off  the  rails  about  women  at 
all;  and  when  I  realised  it  everything  was  over.  I  felt 
that  after  all  I  wasn't  fit  to  go  back  to  her,  to  be  with 
her.  I  couldn't  have  done  it.  I  couldn't  do  it  now, 
though  she  is  the  one  pure  thing,  the  rose  in  my  garden 
of  life — I  speak  like  a  minor  poet,  Jimmy.  Give  me  a 
whisky-and-soda — I'll  help  myself."  He  reached  down 
the  siphon  and  made  a  long  drink.  "If  I  thought  she 
wouldn't  know  it  I'd  go  down  one  day  just  to  walk  round 
the  house  that  contains  her,  it  would  feel  like  going  to 
church." 

"You  had  better  not  let  her  see  you." 

Dick  reflected  for  a  moment.  "I  won't  risk  it.  Some 
one  might  recognise  me  and  tell  her.  People  cackle  so. 
By  the  way,  I  heard  that  old  Fingal,  to  whom  I  objected 
because  he  put  pomatum  on  his  hair,  left  Briarpatch  to 
a  niece.  Does  she  live  there?" 

"Not  much;  only  been  once  since  she  had  it.  She  is 
at  Leesbury  now,  at  the  'White  Hart.'  She  has  been  to 
see  Linda." 

"Oh — it's  a  queer  world;  old  Fingal's  niece  and 
Linda.  .  .  .  You  haven't  told  me  yet  why  you  wanted 
to  see  me,  Jimmy  ?" 


Miss  Fingal  101 

"Well,  it's  an  odd  thing  to  say,  but  I  have  been  ashamed 
of  not  paying  that  two  hundred  you  lent  me  long  ago." 
"My  dear  chap,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  so  why 


worry 


"Fm  not  going  to  worry,  only  to  pay  it  back.  I 
ought  to  have  done  so  years  ago."  He  brought  a  cheque, 
already  made  out,  from  a  pigeon-hole  of  the  table.  "I 
might  have  sent  it  by  post,  but  I  owe  you,  in  other  ways, 
a  good  deal  more  than  this,  and  felt  I  would  like  to  see 
you  again." 

"Good  old  Jimmy,"  Dick  said  half-sadly. 

"Look  here,  you  lectured  me  once  when  you  saved 
me  from  temporary  damnation.  It's  my  turn  now.  If 
people  chucked  the  obligations  they  have  taken  on 
themselves,  wives  and  children  and  the  rest,  when  they 
became  bored  with  them,  it  would  be  the  devil." 

"I  know  that,  and  it's  the  devil  for  me." 

"Linda  would  have  been  all  right  if  you  had  stayed 
with  her,"  Jimmy  went  on.  "She  has  a  capacity  for 
thinking — I  saw  that  to-day — and  when  she  came  to 
know  you  better  she  would  probably  have  been  much 
less  in  love  with  you,  and  contradicted  you  as  flatly  as 
you  pleased,  perhaps  have  found  out  that  other  men  were 
just  as  agreeable,  or  more  so,  than  you — that  would 
have  brought  you  to  your  senses.  Why  couldn't  you 
wait?" 

"Because  I'm  a  selfish  brute,  a  hurrying  fool,  for 
whom  nothing  goes  quickly  enough.  I  tear  the  heart 
out  of  everything  I  can  get  at — and  go  on." 

"But  what  the  devil  is  it  you  do  want?  I  never  could 
get  at  it." 

"Nor  I.  It's  no  good.  I'm  one  of  the  damned,  I 
suppose.  Jimmy,"  he  looked  towards  the  writing-table, 
"do  you  ever  do  any  work?" 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it;  wish  I  did,  but  it  doesn't  inter- 
est me." 

"Most  things  have  been  done  by  the  magnificent 
people  who  have  gone;  the  world  is  being  filled 
with  imitation  goods  and  people  without  ideals — but 
there's  a  remedy  hanging  about  somewhere;  we  shall 
come  upon  it  one  day,  I  am  always  groping  after  it." 


IO2  Miss  Fingal 

"Won't  be  happy  till  you  get  it?  What  else  are  you 
doing  besides  groping?" 

"Making  excuses  for  others — I'm  only  an  excuse 
myself,  not  a  necessity — from  ten  till  four  in  Whitehall, 
in  return  for  four  hundred  a  year.  But  man  must  live, 
as  well  as  the  horse  in  the  stable  or  the  cow  in  the 
field."  He  went  towards  the  door.  "Give  my  love  to 
Bertha.  I'll  go  and  see  her  soon." 

"She's  going  away  for  a  month  or  six  weeks." 

"Oh "  He  thought  for  a  moment,  then  turned 

back.  "There  used  to  be  a  good  doctor  at  Leesbury — 
is  he  seeing  Linda?" 

"Wynne?    Tall,  with  a  red  moustache?" 

"That's  the  man.  He's  a  brother  of  Albery  Wynne, 
the  throat  specialist,  friend  of  mine." 

"We  saw  him  this  afternoon.  He  was  leaving  the 
farm  as  we  arrived." 

"But  who  else  is  looking  after  her?    Is  she  alone?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,  with  the  children.  But  my  step- 
mother keeps  her  more  or  less  in  hand — she  has  a  dis- 
tinct sense  of  obligation  regarding  her  own  relations :  I 
rather  like  her  for  it.  The  Fingal  young  woman  at  the 
White  Hart  seems  inclined  to  look  after  her  too — per- 
haps she'll  send  her  back  to  the  cottage." 

Dick  stared  at  him.  "Back  to  the  cottage — alone — 
My  God!  Good-bye."  He  turned  abruptly,  opened  the 
door,  closed  it  after  himself,  and  ran  down  the  lead- 
covered  stairs  at  breakneck  speed. 

"Mad — not  a  criminal,  only  a  lunatic,"  Jimmy  said  to 
himself,  as  he  carefully  picked  out  a  pipe  from  the  rack. 

Outside,  Alliston  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half- 
past  eight.  He  had  eaten  nothing  for  hours.  A  few 
doors  up  there  was  an  oyster  shop.  He  stood  at  the 
counter  and  gulped  down  a  dozen  natives,  thinking  hard 
the  while.  Then  he  remembered  Hungerford  Bridge. 
.  .  .  He  went  up  the  dark  steps,  walked  briskly  half- 
way across  it,  and  stopped  to  look  down  at  the  river, 
at  the  Embankment  with  its  dim  trees  and  the  traffic 
seen  through  them,  and  the  great  buildings  farther 
back.  The  sky  overhead  was  a  deep  grey.  Here  and 


Miss  Fingal  103 

there  the  stars  looked  down  as  if  watching  the  lights  on 
the  water.  The  whole  scene  calmed  him,  comforted 
him.  "This  is  one  of  the  finest  standing-places  in 
Europe,"  he  said.  "In  this  light  everything  looks 
beautiful  from  it,  wise  and  mysterious — as  if  genera- 
tions had  marched  to  the  banks  of  the  river,  bringing 
their  dreams,  the  imaginings  of  their  brains,  the  work 
of  their  hands — but  for  whom  and  for  what?" 

Presently,  with  a  start,  he  thought — "Of  course, 
Albery  Wynne!  That's  how  I'll  manage  it."  A  long 
look  at  the  river  and  at  either  side  of  it,  at  the  misty 
distance,  and  the  little  barge  with  the  blinking  lamp 
that  was  coming  towards  him — he  waited  till  it  was 
almost  underneath — then  he  turned  away,  picked  up  a 
taxi  by  the  underground  station,  and  drove  to  Wimpole 
Street.  An  empty  car  before  the  house  at  which  he 
stopped  made  way  for  him. 

"Dr.  Wynne?"  he  asked  the  servant  who  answered 
his  knock. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wynne  were  just  going  out,  he  was  told. 

"Doesn't  matter,  he'll  see  me;"  he  strode  into  the 
consulting-room  at  the  back. 

The  doctor  came  in  a  moment  later,  in  evening  dress. 
A  woman  rustled  past  the  door  and  along  the  hall,  pre- 
sumably to  the  waiting  car.  The  throat  specialist  was  a 
tall  red-haired  man,  like  his  brother  the  country  doctor. 
"My  dear  Alliston,"  he  said,  hurried  but  not  surprised, 
"I  can  only  give  you  a  moment.  I'm  taking  my  wife  to 
the  Frivolity.  Your  friend  Miss  Repton  has  kindly  sent 
us  a  box." 

"Good  Lord!" 

"I  have  had  to  put  her  throat  in  some  sort  of  order 
for  her  new  song  to-night.  It's  not  very  strong — I 
think  it  is  better — but  you  probably  know  all  about 
that?" 

"No,"  with  a  snap.  "I  sent  her  to  you  last  year 
because  you  were  the  best  man  for  her  purpose.  I  have 
not  seen  her  lately." 

"Oh — I  thought  you  were  great  friends  still?" 

"She  has  too  many  to  remember  me  long,  and  I  had 
almost  forgotten  her." 


104  Miss  Fingal 

"Oh — she's  not  a  bad  sort,  you  know — we  are  going 
round  to  her  dressing-room  after  the  performance." 

"God  in  heaven!  She'll  probably  offer  to  take  you 
on  to  one  of  her  night  clubs,  where  you  will  see  a 
section  of  what  is  known  as  the  'Smart  Set' — practising 
the  new  code  of  manners  and  morals.  And  yet  we 
wonder  at  the  downfall  of  an  aristocracy  that  has 
chummed  with  the  devil  and  weltered  in  the  gutter." 

"All  right,  my  dear  fellow — but  what  have  you  come 
about?" 

"My  wife.  The  girl  who  was  my  wife  is  at  Highbrook 
Farm.  I  hear  she's  very  ill." 

"I  know — my  brother  was  in  London  yesterday  and 
told  me." 

"Did  he  say  it  was  serious?" 

Dr.  Wynne  nodded  and  added,  "Very." 

"And  I  am  helpless,"  Alliston  said  under  his  breath, 
and  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  a  heavy  chair,  just  as  he 
had  in  Jimmy's  room,  "and  there  are  the  children.  If 
she  dies  I  suppose  they  would  go  to  that  precious  Lady 
Gilston,  a  politic  worldly  woman  who  does  her  duty  by 
rule  and  measure." 

"She  might  let  you  have  them  if  you  cut  yourself 
adrift  from — other  ties." 

"I  have  no  other  ties.  I  never  had  any  but  those  at 
Leesbury.  I  was  mad,  a  fool,  a  scoundrel  if  you  like, 
Wynne,  but  if — I  have  killed  Linda,"  his  hand  tight- 
ened on  the  chair-back  for  a  moment,  "I  must  get  the 
children  somehow " 

"There  might  be  difficulties.  .  .  .  The  Gilstons  are 
rich.  But  Lady  Gilston  is  not  a  bad  sort;  I  have  met 
her  several  times " 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is  I  am  going  broke  over  those 
beastly  South  American  railways."  Then  suddenly, 
"It's  time  you  went  to  your  music-hall.  I'm  off."  He 
held  out  his  hand.  "I  wanted  to  be  sure.  Write  to 
me  if  you  hear  anything — the  old  address." 

The  doctor  grasped  his  hand.  "I  will,  and  I'll  do 
anything  I  can,  old  chap,  but  I'm  afraid  there's  nothing." 
They  went  out  together.  Dick  swept  the  tragedy  out 
of  his  mind  for  a  minute  while  he  said  a  word  or  two 


Miss  Fingal  105 

and  laughed  gaily  with  Mrs.  Wynne,  waiting  in  the  car 
for  her  husband,  then  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

"Alliston  has  been  an  awful  fool,"  the  doctor  said 
when  he  had  told  his  wife  the  reason  of  the  visit.  "It 
might  be  his  salvation  to  get  hold  of  those  children,  and 
from  his  manner  just  now  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he 
had  tired  of  Miss  Cissie  Repton  and  her  world." 

"And  if  she  realised  about  the  children  she  might 
leave  him  alone." 

"She  might,  or — she  is  coming  to  see  me  in  the 
morning.  I  could  tell  her  about  them.  I  don't  suppose 
he  has  even  mentioned  his  wife  to  her.  He  has  some 
fine  feelings  of  his  own  that  would  prevent  it." 

"She  might  take  it  into  her  head  to  marry  him?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  if  he  is  broke  .  .  .  and 
she  wouldn't  want  a  couple  of  children  to  bring  up. 
Here  we  are." 

"What  a  lovely  portrait  that  is  of  her,"  Mrs.  Wynne 
said  as  they  went  through  the  vestibule  to  their  box. 

"She  looks  common,  but  she's  pretty,"  he  agreed. 


XIV. 

ALINE  FINGAL  sat  with  her  breakfast  tray  before  her, 
and  lived  yesterday  over  again — the  drive  to  the  farm, 
the  red-druggeted  stairs,  Janet's  doubtful  voice  as  she 
showed  her  into  the  empty  room,  and  the  moment 
when  Linda  Alliston  had  stood  in  the  farther  doorway. 
She  had  seen  her,  heard  her!  She  had  known  that  it 
would  mean  a  good  deal  to  her,  but  it  had  been  far  more 
than  she  could  have  imagined.  She  felt  that  the  white 
hands  with  the  slipping  rings  held  some  key  to  life,  to 
the  life  for  which  she  had  been  waiting.  Perhaps  Linda 
had  felt  it  too,  for  had  she  not  called  her  by  her  Christian 
name,  and  kissed  her?  She  looked  out  across  the 
common:  spring  seemed  to  be  touching  it  already  though 
January  was  not  over.  She  opened  the  window,  and 
the  sunlight,  soft  and  warm,  touched  her  face  as  if  it 
took  account  of  her.  A  little  mist  hung  about  the  wood 
on  the  left  and  hid  what  in  a  mountainous  place  would 
have  been  called  the  foot-hills,  and  in  the  distance  on 
the  right,  clearer,  for  there  was  less  vegetation,  were  the 
rising,  unfinished  villas,  and  beyond  them  she  knew 
were  the  golf  links  that  had  brought  Dick  Alliston  to 
Leesbury.  She  wondered  what  he  looked  like;  and 
wished  Bertha  had  told  her  that  he  and  Linda  might 
some  day  be  together  again.  She  was  too  unsophisti- 
cated to  take  in  the  significance  of  Bertha's  account  of 
all  that  had  happened ;  the  mere  fact  that  Jimmy  had 
punctuated  it  with  mildly  humorous  remarks  weakened 
it  to  her.  It  seemed  as  if  there  had  been  a  good  deal 
of  mischief-making  and  bad  luck  about  it  all.  If  Dick 
Alliston  could  know  how  ill  Linda  was  now  he  might 
entreat  her  forgiveness  and  all  the  tragedy  would  be 

106 


Miss  Fingal  107 

swept  away,  and  they  should  go  back  to  the  cottage  if 
they  would,  and  find  it  just  as  they  had  left  it,  save  that 
some  of  the  things  they  had  meant  to  do  would  be  done 
already  and  awaiting  them.  "Oh,  they  should  have  it, 
they  should  have  it!  How  wonderful  it  would  be.  It 
would  make  her  well,"  she  cried  aloud.  When  she  had 
gone  through  the  interview  with  Linda  she  left  the  farm 
in  her  thoughts  and  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  and  went 
over  the  meeting  in  the  dim  light  outside  with  Bertha  and 
Jimmy,  and  the  tea-party  later.  It  was  so  unbelievable 
to  think  that  it  was  her  party,  her  table,  that  they  had 
been  her  guests.  Her  face  lighted  up  as  she  realised  it. 
She  had  liked  them  and  everything  about  them,  Jimmy's 
blue  eyes  and  the  loose  mouth  that  suggested  he  was 
greedy — and  he  was;  it  amused  her  to  remember  how 
he  had  exulted  over  the  rich  buttered  cake  and  the  jam, 
and  Bertha's  large  smile  that  seemed  to  come  from  a 
large  heart,  the  untidy  wisps  of  golden-brown  hair,  the 
calm,  well-modulated  voice;  and  the  cigarette-smoking 
that  was  so  apposite  to  her  whole  personality.  While  she 
thought  of  them  she  laughed  a  little,  and  forgot  Linda. 

But  in  spite  of  the  pleasant  memories  it  was  a  blank 
day.  She  walked  along  the  road  in  the  morning,  half  a 
mile  in  every  direction,  afraid  to  go  far  lest  she  should 
miss  some  messenger,  some  sign  for  which  she  longed. 
She  sat  through  nearly  the  whole  afternoon  by  the 
window.  It  had  been  her  good  fortune,  though  she  did 
not  realise  it,  never  to  face  rows  of  houses.  Even  in 
Bedford  Square  there  had  been  the  enclosure  between 
them.  Battersea  Park  with  its  distances  and  trees  and 
hidden  lake  and  band,  Wavercombe  with  its  green, 
and  now  Leesbury  and  its  common — all  of  them  led  to 
somewhere  that  was  strange  and  perhaps  held  a  mys- 
tery, a  message  that  was  slowly  drifting  towards  her. 
She  was  getting  ready,  unconsciously  waiting  for  it.  ... 
And  the  hours  went  by,  shapeless,  yet  charged  with 
expectancy,  for  yesterday  there  had  begun  an  obsession 
for  Linda  Alliston.  .  .  . 

The  day  passed  and  the  next  came,  and  still  she  sat 
watching  with  her  hands  folded,  and  disappointment 
stealing  into  her  heart.  But  in  the  afternoon,  while  she 


io8  Miss  Fingal 

was  wondering  whether  she  had  courage  to  go  to  the 
farm,  the  door  opened  and  Linda  entered,  her  face 
showing  how  great  had  been  the  exertion  of  her  coming. 

"Oh,  you  shouldn't — you  shouldn't,"  Aline  exclaimed 
with  joyful  dismay.  "I  was  thinking  of  going  to  you 
— longing  to  go." 

Linda  sat  down  breathless,  and  waited  to  recover. 
"I  wanted  to  come,"  she  managed  to  whisper;  "in  a 
minute  I  shall  be  better.  It's  a  good  day  with  me.  I 
am  stronger,  and  walked  all  the  way." 

"Walked!     Oh,  it  was  much  too  far." 

"I  wanted  to  do  it  once  again.  I  know  the  road  so 
well — I  felt  I  must  see  it  again."  Her  eyes  wandered 
round  the  room.  "It  all  looks  just  the  same.  We  sat 
here  once  through  a  great  thunderstorm  and  watched 
the  lightning — I  must  wait  a  minute;  I  shall  be  well 
directly."  She  went  to  a  chair  near  the  window  and 
took  off  her  hat.  Aline,  standing  by  her,  saw  how 
lovely  was  the  tumbled  hair,  the  hair  that  was  nearly  the 
same  colour  as  her  own,  but  much  more  beautiful :  she 
loved  it.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  been  stirred  as  she 
was  stirred  by  this  girl,  whom  only  once  had  she  seen 
before.  She  was  aware  of  it,  and  almost  awestruck  at 
its  strangeness. 

"An  open  window  and  a  blazing  fire;  it's  always 
good,"  Linda  said,  looking  outwards  when  she  was 
better.  "I'm  so  glad  I  came.  I  can  see  the  way  to  the 
links  once  more — across  the  common  and  past  those 
half-built  villas;  and  those  poor  gorse  bushes,  how 
brown  they  are,  but  they'll  be  golden  soon.  Oh,  I 
am  glad  I  came,"  she  repeated  with  a  long  sigh  of 
content. 

"It  was  too  far  for  you." 

"I  didn't  do  it  all  at  once.  I  rested  in  one  of  the 
cottages  for  a  long  time.  I  liked  seeing  the  old  women 
again,  but  their  back  gardens  are  horribly  untidy,  and 
the  pig-sties  are  empty.  They  were  quite  pleased  to 
see  me — the  old  women,  I  mean,  not  the  pig-sties." 
She  looked  up  and  laughed:  it  was  music  to  her 
listener.  "I  told  them  that  if  they  planted  scarlet- 
runners  this  year  they  must  be  sure  to  put  in  some  con- 


Miss  Fingal  109 

volvulus  seed,  as  they  did  last  time.  It  grew  up  tall, 
over  the  sticks,  and  flowered  in  and  out  among  the 
beans.  It  showed  that  the  poor  old  dears  had  a  sense  of 
beauty  in  them;  but  all  people  have,  though  they  don't 
always  find  it  out  in  time.  Don't  you  think  so,  Aline?" 

"I  don't  know."  Aline  answered  vaguely,  glad  to  be 
called  by  her  name  again,  but  not  yet  at  ease  with  her 
visitor. 

"I  stayed  for  nearly  an  hour  with  them,"  she  went 
on,  "but  I  am  very  tired  though  I  rested  on  a  grassy 
bank  by  the  wayside." 

"You  mustn't  walk  back — you  couldn't."  Miss  Fingal 
rang  the  bell.  "Bring  some  tea,"  she  told  the  waiter, 
"and  see  that  the  fly  is  ready  presently.  I  am  going 
to  take  Mrs.  Alliston  back  to  the  farm " 

"In  an  hour,  not  longer,"  Linda  said.  When  they 
were  alone  again  she  held  her  friend's  hands  against  her 
face.  "How  kind  of  you  to  think  of  the  fly.  And  are 
you  really  going  to  take  me  back?"  She  put  a  little 
soft  kiss  on  the  hand  before  she  let  go. 

"You  mustn't!"  Aline  was  almost  frightened  at  her 
own  joy.  "No  one  ever  did  anything  like  that  to  me 
— ever  at  all." 

"Not  even  when  you  were  ill?" 

"I  have  never  been  ill." 

"Never    ill — how    strange.    I    didn't    know    till    lately 

how  wonderful  it  was  to  be  well;  now  it's  all  over." 

«/"\i_  " 

Oh  no 

"Yes,  it  is.  George  Eliot  said  that  life  was  divided 
into  many  chapters  before  the  last  one  we  call  death. 
The  one  in  which  I  was  well  and  happy  is  over  and 
finished." 

"I  have  felt  that — I  mean  that  life  is  divided  into 
chapters.  I  said  it  once  to  Mrs.  Bendish,"  Aline  was 
half-frightened.  "Perhaps  I  read  it,  or  I  may  have 
thought  it." 

".Who  knows?    I  often  feel  that  there  is  an  intangible 

•'currency   of   thought.      It   would    account    for   the    way 

things  drift,  without  meetings  or  knowledge,   from  one 

to  the  other,  and   for  two  people  getting  hold   of  the 

same  idea." 


no  Miss  Fingal 

"I  wish  I  could  think  of  things  as  you  do — "  Aline 
said. 

"But  I  have  only  begun  to  think  this  last  year,  because 
I've  been  alone  and  suffered.  Oh,  I  have  suffered  so — " 
Linda  raised  her  arms  and  clasped  her  hands  on  her 
hair  as  if  to  keep  back  a  moan.  "But  it  has  taught  me 
a  great  deal.  Nothing  makes  one  think  as  pain  does — 
inward-racking  pain,  that  has  to  be  borne  alone." 

"But  when  you  were  happy?" 

"I  was  taken  up  with  an  overwhelming  love,  absorbed 
in  it.  I  had  thought  of  nothing,  cared  for  nothing  be- 
fore it  came.  My  mother  and  I  had  been  together,  but 
she  had  her  own  interests  and  never  told  me  about 
them.  I  just  lived  and  waited — I  didn't  know  for 
what,  till  Dick  came  and  swept  me  off  my  feet,  and  I 
loved  him  so  much  that  it  isolated  me;  and  when  he 
went  I  was  alone  in  a  wilderness.  I  have  the  children," 
she  said  wearily,  "and  I  adore  them  because  they  are 
his.  Since  he  went  I've  tried  to  disentangle  the  things 
he  used  to  talk  about,  and  arrive  somewhere — some 
mystical  somewhere  I  cannot  explain.  But  when  he 
was  with  me  I  couldn't  care  for  anything  at  all — only 
for  him — my  Dick — and  sometimes  I  have  thought  that, 
just  as  love  gave  him  to  me,  so  it  sent  him  away.  But 
he  has  left  me  many  of  his  thoughts — as  a  sort  of  legacy. 
I  go  over  them  again  and  again." 

"He  will  come  back,"  Aline  whispered. 

Linda  shook  her  head.  "No;  let  us  talk  of  something 
else,"  she  said  abruptly.  "Yes — give  me  some  tea." 

She  looked  beautiful  as  she  sat  in  the  easy-chair, 
facing  the  light;  better  for  her  rest  and  the  obvious 
admiration  that  Aline  gave  her.  The  colour  came  to 
her  face,  her  eyes  grew  bright  and  filled  for  just  a  little 
while  with  something  that  passed  for  happiness.  It  was 
so  good  to  be  loved  again — almost  worshipped. 

"I  wish  I  knew  more  about  you,  you  quaint  thing," 
she  said  gratefully,  "though  you  told  me  a  good  deal 
the  other  day.  Have  you  no  friends  at  all  who  care  for 
you  and  look  after  you  ?" 

"No,  no  one  at  all.  You  see,  I  am  not  clever,"  Aline 
answered  simply.  "I  think  I  might  be  different  if  I 


Miss  Fingal  in 

saw  you  sometimes.  You  are  not  like  any  one  else." 
She  bent  down  towards  the  face  looking  up  at  her;  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  drawing  in  the  life  that  seemed  to  be 
escaping  and  quickening  the  whole  atmosphere. 

"You  shall  see  me  very  often  if  you  like,  but  perhaps 
you  won't  stay  here  very  long?" 

"I  will  stay  as  long  as  you  want  me."  And  then, 
with  bated  breath,  Aline  asked  the  question  that  had 
been  in  her  mind.  "Would  you  care  to  go  back  to  the 
cottage  at  Wavercombe?  I  will  give  it  to  you.  I  want 
you  to  go  there." 

Linda  shook  her  head;  she  sat  very  still  looking 
at  the  fire.  Then,  suddenly,  she  took  up  the  thread 
again.  "I  couldn't  go  there,  but  I'm  glad  it's  yours. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  Mr.  Fingal  living  in  it. 
I  used  to  be  afraid  of  him  when  he  stayed  at  the 
vicarage.  He  was  so  hard  and  precise,  but  you  are 
different.  Go  there  a  great  deal,  Aline,  and  be  happy; 
make  it  a  little  temple  dedicated  to  happiness.  And  you 
are  sure  to  go  abroad  at  different  times — I  should  like 
to  think  that  you  would  go  to  Avranches  and  Mont- 
Saint-Michel.  You  know  where  they  are?"  amused  at 
the  inquiring  eyes. 

"Oh  yes,"  Aline  answered  meekly,  glad  that  at  least 
she  did  know  this  one  thing.  "And  Miss  Gilston  told 
me  you  had  been  there." 

"Dear  Bertha!  You  must  make  a  friend  of  her. 
She  is  full  of  humanity,  and  knows  a  great  deal  of 
which  she  has  no  experience — some  wise  people  do — life 
has  taken  them  into  its  confidence.  It  was  she  who  told 
us  to  go  to  Avranches." 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  go  there?" 

"Because  that  is  the  place,  after  the  cottage,  that  is 
most  vivid  to  me  and  where  I  was  happiest.  I  should 
like  to  think  that  some  one  else  would  be  happy  there." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"It's  a  little  place.  We  drove  to  it  from  the  coast, 
all  the  way.  They  were  such  straight  roads — we  could 
see  far,  far  ahead — long  white  roads  with  trees  on  either 
side:  perhaps  they  are  spoiled  now — I  don't  know.  At 
Avranches  you  could  stay  at  the  little  hotel  with  green 


H2  Miss  Fingal 

i 

shutters  to  its  windows.  I  forget  its  name,  but  it  has  a 
rose-garden,  and  is  very  peaceful.  In  one  of  the 
churches  there  is  a  tomb,  with  a  glass  case  on  it,  long 
and  narrow,  holding  the  wax  effigy  of  a  girl.  I  felt  as 
if  I  had  known  her  when  I  looked  at  her  first — known 
her  and  forgotten.  She  has  hair  rather  like  yours,  her 
face  is  the  same  shape.  She  is  dressed  in  white  satin, 
and  she  looks  tragic,  but  calm  and  remote.  I  think  of  her 
sometimes  and  wonder  if  she  is  young  still — the  poor 
wax  effigy  lying  there  is  young;  why  should  she,  for 
whom  time  is  at  an  end,  grow  old?  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
gone  there  to  see  her,  as  if  she  knew  I  was  standing  by 
her  though  she  could  make  no  sign.  You  must  go  and 
see  her  too,  Aline." 

"Yes,"  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"And  from  Avranches  you  can  drive  to  Mont-Saint- 
Michel:  it's  a  wonderful  place.  We  had  a  high  room 
in  one  of  the  crazy  old  houses  looking  on  the  sea.  The 
sea  came  close  up  beneath  our  windows,  and  we  sat  up 
late  looking  at  it — listening;  but  in  the  morning  the 
tide  had  gone  and  only  the  sands  were  left.  Over  the 
sands  a  religious  procession — red-robed  and  white- 
gowned — was  coming,  from  the  mainland,  with  a  golden 
cross  held  high  in  front  of  it.  The  sunshine  fell  on  the 
red  and  white,  and  sparkled  on  the  sea  that  had  gone 
back  into  the  distance,  and  summer  was  over  every- 
thing— summer  swathed  and  beautified  the  world.  We 
heard  them  singing " 

Aline  shut  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  Her  soul  seemed 
to  go  outwards  to  the  sea — to  the  sand:  she  could  hear 
the  voices  chanting — she  could  see  the  cross  uplifted  in 
the  sunshine;  and  the  summer  air,  soft  and  warm, 
fanned  her. 

"I  think  I  must  have  been  there,"  she  said;  "I  can 
see  it  all — when  you  tell  me  things  I  seem  to  remember 
them.  Did  you  ever  feel  that  with  any  one?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Linda  answered  as  if  to  herself,  and 
leaning  towards  the  fire  she  put  out  her  hands  towards 
it,  thin  white  hands  that  seemed  to  hunger  for  warmth. 
"It  may  be  a  tide  that  flows  towards  us  and  ebbs — and 
sometimes  the  same  wave  has  reached  us."  It  was 


Miss  Fingal  113 

only  whispered  to  the  flame  that  was  shooting  upwards. 
There  was  a  long  silence.  Suddenly  she  looked  up. 
"Aline." 

"Yes?" 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  see  the  children — soon." 

"Yes." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  quickly,  as  if  afraid 
of  losing  something  she  was  trying  to  lay  hold  of  before 
it  drifted  from  her  thoughts,  "I  wonder  if  you'll  marry — 
marry  and  have  children — it's  dreadful  not  to  have 
children,  it  means  living  in  a  cul-de-sac — do  you  hear, 
you  dear  thing?" 

Aline  was  bewildered.  "But  I  never  knew  any  chil- 
dren." 

"You  shall  begin  by  knowing  mine.  You  can't  see 
them  to-day,  and  to-morrow  I  must  rest,  but  come  the 
day  after.  I  want  you,"  she  repeated. 


XV. 


Two  days  later  she  went,  reluctantly  and  half  afraid 
because  of  the  children.  She  had  none  of  the  maternal 
feelings  that  come  naturally  to  most  women.  But  she 
knew  she  had  to  see  the  children,  and  she  forced  herself 
to  do  it.  She  walked  there  by  the  short  cut.  There 
were  snowdrops  in  the  hedges  now  as  well  as  violets, 
and  overhead,  among  the  trees  beside  the  lane,  the  wild 
sweet  note  of  thrush  and  blackbird  broke  the  stillness ; 
but  she  saw  and  heard  nothing.  She  walked  on  with 
no  power  to  resist  that  which  gently  but  irresistibly 
drove  her  towards  the  meeting  that  awaited  her. 

Linda  looked  worn  out,  and  was  a  little  absent- 
minded  in  her  greeting,  as  if  she  had  been  disturbed 
in  the  midst  of  anxious  thinking. 

"The  children  will  be  here  directly,"  she  said  when 
Aline  had  nervously  sat  down.  "I  told  Janet  to  bring 
them  in  the  moment  they  returned.  They  come  in  early, 
for  it  so  soon  gets  chilly.  They  are  gathering  some 
violets  for  you."  She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  and 
looked  up  half  piteously.  "I've  been  stupidly  ill  since 
I  saw  you,  and  sometimes  a  horrid  spasm  comes.  I 
tried  to  go  out  to-day,  but  even  once  round  the  garden 
was  too  much  for  me." 

"Let  me  drive  you  out  on  the  sunny  days,"  Aline 
said,  eager  to  do  something  for  her  friend;  "we  won't 
have  the  joggy  fly " 

Linda  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "The  poor  horse  is 
so  bony,  and  seems  very  tired,  doesn't  it?" 

"We  will  have  a  carriage,  or  a  car  down  from  London." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "Even  driving  fatigues  me. 
And  you  must  do  all  the  visiting  now,  I  can't  go  to  you 

114 


Miss  Fingal  115 

again — it  was  too  much.  I  wish  the  children  would 
come.  Sturdie  is  so  like  his  father";  her  face  lighted 
up  while  she  spoke. 

"I  didn't  like  to  ask  the  other  day — but  if  it  doesn't 
hurt,  tell  me  about  him — I  mean  only  what  he  was 
like,"  she  added  hurriedly. 

Linda  leant  her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  looked  into 
space,  and  while  she  spoke  Aline  could  see  him,  just  as 
she  had  seen  the  Normandy  places  the  other  day.  "He 
was  impatient  and  dreamy  and  happy — all  in  turn — and 
he  worshipped  the  world — just  the  world  itself — the 
universe,  the  sun  and  moon  and  all  the  stars,  I  think" 
— she  added  with  a  little  laugh,  "and  human  beings 
were  of  such  little  account  compared  to  the  demands 
that  other  things  seemed  to  make  upon  him.  He  cared 
for  no  one  very  long.  I  know  he  loved  me,  but  I  was 
only  a  day  in  his  summer." 

"You  have  the  children,"  Aline  said,  mystified  and  con- 
fused. "They  will  make  you  happier " 

"And  his  best  life  is  in  the  children,"  she  answered 
with  a  smile  that  transfigured  her.  She  stopped  for  a 
moment.  "And  they  are  mine — he  gave  them  to  me — 
his  wonderful  gift — they  are  a  bit  of  all  that  was  ours 
for  a  little  while,  such  a  little  while — my  splendid  Dick !" 

"I  know  .  .  ."  Aline  answered  again  as  if  hypnotised, 
"I  understand — when  I  close  my  eyes  I  can  see  and 
feel  as  you  do." 

Linda  looked  at  her,  a  long  searching,  inquiring  gaze, 
and  peace  seemed  to  find  its  way  to  her  heart.  "I 
believe  you  can — "  she  said.  "And  I  think  there  will 
come  to  us  both  the  meaning  of  all  this.  Only — "  with 
a  long  sigh — "I'm  so  tired  of  pain." 

"You  will  be  better  soon — you  must  be,"  Aline  said, 
"for  them,"  she  added  lamely. 

"They  are  the  world  to  me  now.  If  I  could  only  get 
strong!  My  soul  is  stronger  than  the  body  that  holds 
it,"  she  went  on  passionately.  "The  outward  me  seems 
to  be  dropping  away  down  into  the  earth  again — I  feel 
sometimes  as  if  I  were  only  clutching  at  it — but  life 
itself  cannot  go — surely  that  cannot?  If  we  only  knew 
what  life  is,"  she  went  on  half  to  herself,  "we  could 


n6  Miss  Fingal 

fight  for  it  better — but  at  times  it  seems  as  if  we  were 
led  up  a  blind  alley.  Here  they  are" — as  the  door 
opened.  She  was  another  being,  a  joyous  one,  as  the 
children  entered. 

Sturdie  ran  towards  her,  and  Bridget  smiled  from 
Janet's  arms.  "My  darlings,  my  darlings!"  She  went 
down  on  her  knees  to  be  even  with  Sturdie's  face,  and 
kissed  him  eagerly.  He  wore  a  little  green  sweater  that 
was  rather  too  big  for  him,  and  a  green  cap  with  a 
tassel.  "My  precious  one,"  she  said,  "here  is  Miss 
Fingal — Aline — that  is  her  name,  darling — I  am  so 
glad  she  has  come  to  see  you." 

He  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  said  "Mummy,"  and 
rubbed  his  cheek  against  hers,  and  then,  as  if  he  knew 
it  was  his  sister's  turn  to  be  caressed,  drew  aside. 
Janet  set  down  little  Bridget  and  Linda  kissed  her  too 
and  called  her  Kitten  and  many  other  names  before  she 
looked  at  her  friend  waiting  nervously  on  the  sofa. 
"Aline  has  come  on  purpose  to  see  you,  dears,"  she 
repeated.  "Say  'How  do  you  do?'  to  her,  Sturdie." 
But  Sturdie  shrank  back,  holding  his  mother's  skirt. 

"Won't  you  speak  to  me?"  Miss  Fingal  said 
timidly.  He  shook  his  head  and  hid  his  face. 

"This  one  will,"  Linda  said,  and  softly  pushed  Bridget 
forward.  But  Bridget  turned  away  too.  "They'll  get 
used  to  you  soon." 

"It's  only  because  you  are  strange,  ma'am,"  Janet 
said,  touched  by  the  distress  on  Miss  Fingal's  face. 
"They'll  get  to  know  you  and  be  fond  of  you." 

"They  will,  dear — I  know  they  will,"  Linda  added 
anxiously. 

"This  is  the  lady  we  gathered  the  violets  for,  Master 
Sturdie,"  Janet  told  him.  "Don't  you  want  to  give 
them  to  her?"  She  fetched  a  little  basket  from  outside 
the  door  and  gave  it  to  him." 

He  looked  at  Miss  Fingal  doubtfully;  then,  going 
towards  her  he  held  it  out  with  his  face  carefully  turned 
away. 

"Thank  you,  darling,  it's  very  kind  of  you."  He 
hesitated  and  then,  as  if  reassured  by  her  voice,  went 
a  little  nearer.  She  bent  and  kissed  the  top  of  his  head. 


Miss  Fingal  117 

The  touch  of  the  soft  hair  against  her  lips  thrilled  her. 
She  had  never  kissed  a  child  before.  "Oh,  I  wish  they 
would  know  me  and  like  me  a  little,"  she  said  humbly. 

"They  will,  they  will,"  Linda  answered.  "Would 
you  like  to  hold  Bridget  for  a  moment?"  But  Bridget 
wanted  none  of  Miss  Fingal,  and  clung  to  her  nurse. 

"It's  just  a  stranger  they  object  to,"  Janet  explained, 
"they'll  be  all  right  in  a  time  or  two,  ma'am.  I  think 
I  had  better  take  them  now.  They'll  get  over  the 
firstness,  and  next  time  they'll  be  better." 

It  was  a  relief  when  they  went.  "I  never  knew  any 
one  who  was  little,"  Aline  said  in  an  apologetic  voice, 
"nor  any  one  who  was  young,  since  I  went  to  school. 
I  have  been  waiting,  I  think  I  knew  I  was  waiting — 
at  Battersea  when  I  used  to  hear  the  children's  voices 
in  the  Park."  She  got  up  to  go. 

Linda  took  her  hands.  "I  think  you  were,"  she 
said.  "When  will  you  come  again?  Come  to  tea  with 
me  and  the  children — people  get  more  friendly  sitting 
at  a  table — not  to-morrow — I  always  have  to  rest  after 
seeing  a  visitor.  Dr.  Wynne  doesn't  allow  me  to  have 
one  two  days  running.  And  the  day  after,  cousin  Augusta 
will  be  here.  She  has  heard  from  mother  who  has  some 
idea  of  coming  to  fetch  us  and  taking  us  out  to  Mentone ; 
but  I  don't  want  to  go  away  from  this  place — I  couldn't. 
Come  to  tea  on  Saturday.  It  will  be  such  a  good 
preparation  for  Sunday.  But  what  will  you  do  without 
us  for  three  days?"  she  asked,  with  the  little  laugh 
that  was  always  gay  and  fresh. 

"I  think  I  will  go  to  London  to-morrow  just  for  two 
nights,  and  choose  a  paper  for  the  staircase  at  Bedford 
Square." 

"How  nice.  You  must  bring  back  a  bit  to  show  me; 
we'll  try  to  imagine  how  it  will  look." 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to  bring  you  all  sorts  of  things," 
escaped  from  Aline's  lips. 

"Bring  a  cake,"  Linda  said,  and  clapped  her  hands 
feebly,  for  she  was  very  tired,  "a  large  plum-cake  with 
sugar  on  the  top,  for  tea  on  Saturday.  I  adore  plum- 
cake,  and  it  is  such  a  long  time  since  I  saw  one;  and 
Sturdie  will  be  subjugated  altogether." 


n8  Miss  Fingal 

"Tell  me  something  else — hundreds  of  things." 
"We  don't  want  anything  else,  only  the  big  plum- 
cake.  But  I  think  you  are  a  darling.  And  you  have 
such  sweet  eyes.  I  should  like  to  kiss  them."  She 
leant  towards  her.  It  was  almost  more  than  the  lone 
woman  could  bear.  "And  the  children  will  love  you — 
they  will  love  you." 

All  the  way  back  she  repeated  to  herself,  "The  children 
will  love  you,  they  will  love  you."  The  words  seemed 
to  go  through  her,  to  sink  into  her  heart  and  soul. 


XVI. 

SHE  decided  not  to  go  to  London  till  the  afternoon. 
In  the  morning,  crossing  the  road,  ahead  of  her  as  if  to 
some  woods  on  the  right,  she  saw  the  children  with 
Janet.  She  made  a  hurried  step  forward,  then  drew  back, 
afraid  lest  they  should  resent  her  advances  again,  and 
she  had  no  means  of  bribing  them  to  consider  her.  On 
Saturday  she  would  bring  back  a  cake  and  anything 
else  that  suggested  itself  as  likely  to  please  them.  She 
remembered  the  orange  tree  she  had  sent  the  Bendish 
child.  It  had  been  a  success;  she  would  bring  one  for 
Sturdie.  If  she  could  only  think  of  things  to  say  that 
pleased  children?  They  perplexed  her,  frightened  her, 
she  had  no  idea  how  to  propitiate  them.  And  yet  she 
wanted  to  win  the  confidence  of  these  two  babies;  for 
their  mother  had  hypnotised  her — she  felt  drawn  to  her 
as  to  nothing  else  on  earth. 

All  this  went  through  her  mind  while  she  sat  by  the 
open  window  in  the  hour  before  her  train  started  for 
London.  And  she  thought  what  a  good  thing  it  was 
to  have  money.  Its  power  was  only  slowly  dawning 
on  her :  she  had  accepted  the  things  that  came  from  it 
without  much  elation — the  living  in  different  places,  or 
going  to  the  stalls  at  a  concert  instead  of  to  the 
gallery,  and  writing  cheques  when  she  wanted  to  help 
charitably  instead  of  sending  a  trivial  postal  order;  but 
from  the  pleasures  and  excitements  on  which  other 
women  would  have  spent  freely  she  held  aloof.  With 
dress  she  hardly  concerned  herself,  and  it  simply  never 
occurred  to  her  to  buy  a  jewel;  the  nearest  approach 
to  one  on  which  she  had  ventured  was  a  little  white- 

119 


120  Miss  Fingal 

faced  watch  set  in  a  flexible  gold  band:  the  buying 
of  it  at  an  expensive  jeweller's  had  been  one  of  the 
events  of  the  winter.  She  had  liked  Linda's  soft-falling 
raiment,  and  the  lace  about  her  neck,  and  the  diamond 
arrow  brooch,  or  the  quaint  opal  pin  with  which  it  was 
usually  fastened ;  but  she  didn't  want  such  things  herself ; 
they  would  have  embarrassed  her — as  the  children  did. 
She  rested  her  chin  on  her  hands  as  she  looked  outwards 
across  the  common.  The  little  patches  of  gorse  had 
more  spots  of  gold  than  even  three  days  ago,  the  bits 
of  green  were  more  vivid.  She  thought  of  the  garden 
at  the  farm  with  the  Dutch  pathway,  and  of  how  Linda 
had  pushed  open  the  window  that  first  day  to  look  for 
the  children,  and  the  sunshine  had  come  in  and  flooded 
the  room.  It  reminded  her  of  the  possibility  of  Lady 
Hester  coming  and  taking  her  and  the  children  back  to 
the  sunshine  of  Mentone.  But  if  Linda  was  not  able  to 
bear  the  motion  of  a  car  she  would  hardly  be  able  to 
make  so  long  a  journey.  When  Linda  was  well — or  .  .  . 
she  looked  at  the  alternative  scared  and  breathless, 
afraid  and  yet  curious,  as  if  unconsciously  she  knew  that 
some  strange  development,  that  was  inevitable,  marched 
with  it;  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait — again 
and  always  to  wait. 

The  hoot  of  a  closed  car  that  had  stopped  before  the 
hotel  made  her  look  down.  A  woman,  her  head  swathed 
in  a  motor-veil,  leant  forward,  while  the  chauffeur  spoke 
to  the  ostler,  asking  the  way  to  Highbrook  Farm.  A 
moment  later  it  had  gone. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  Lady  Hester,"  Miss  Fingal  thought, 
and  craned  her  neck  to  watch  the  car  out  of  sight.  "If 
she  has  come  to  take  her  away  I  will  follow  her.  She 
will  want  me — I  know  she  will  want  me."  But  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done  now.  A  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece struck  four  and  startled  her.  It  was  time  to  get 
ready  for  the  train.  She  thought  for  a  mon:ent  of  the 
motor-car  going  towards  the  farm  and  followed  it  in 
her  thoughts — it  was  nearly  there — she  could  see  it 
stop  before  the  gate  which  the  boy,  who  always  was 
working  near  it,  opened;  she  could  hear  the  clanging 
bell  with  the  iron  pulley.  ...  It  wasn't  Lady  Hester,  it 


Miss  Fingal  121 

was  some  one  who  was  young;  she  was  certain  of  that, 
though  the  face  had  been  hidden. 

She  rang  and  ordered  a  cup  of  tea;  she  remembered 
that  Mrs.  Webb  had  brought  her  one  before  she  left  the 
cottage,  and  she  had  gathered  that  it  was  the  usual 
feminine  prelude  to  a  journey.  She  was  reluctant  to 
go.  Stimson  was  anxious  about  the  wall-paper ;  but 
she  wasn't  much  interested  in  it  any  longer,  nor  even 
in  the  prospect  of  electric  light,  though  she  recognised 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  send  away  the  shadows 
in  the  drawing-room.  But  she  seemed  to  have  so  little 
life,  or  consciousness  of  life,  when  she  was  in  Bedford 
Square — here  at  Leesbury  it  was  different — even  the  fact 
that  she  was  going  back,  though  only  for  a  couple  of 
days,  seemed  to  deaden  her. 

The  landlord  carried  her  hand-luggage  to  the  station. 
He  liked  the  soft-spoken  young  lady  on  the  first  floor, 
and  took  it  upon  himself  to  see  her  off.  They  would  be 
glad  to  see  her  back,  he  assured  her,  as  he  put  her  into 
an  empty  carriage.  The  door  was  shut  and  in  a  minute 
she  had  started.  As  he  turned  to  go  back  he  noticed  the 
signal-post.  "Very  odd,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Looks 
now  as  if  the  three-fifteen  wasn't  going  to  stop  here." 


XVII. 

ALL  the  afternoon  Linda  had  been  lying  on  the  sofa, 
wrestling  with  pain  and  weakness.  "It  is  only  one  of 
my  black  days,"  she  told  herself,  "and  all  things  get 
over  in  time."  The  fire  crackled  in  the  old-fashioned 
grate,  the  window  was  open  ready  for  the  sunshine  to 
enter;  it  was  always  a  delight  to  her  when  it  came 
round  the  corner  of  the  house  to  take  the  garden  into 
its  embrace.  She  had  not  seen  the  children  since  the 
morning;  it  seemed  a  long  time;  she  wanted  to  hear 
their  voices  and  their  pattering  feet.  Janet  had  dis- 
creetly kept  them  out  of  the  way,  but  now  that  she  was 
getting  better  they  should  come  and  talk  their  baby 
talk  to  her.  It  always  did  her  good — and,  O  God! 
how  much  she  loved  them.  A  sense  of  desperation  was 
upon  her.  Her  mother  had  written  that  morning  an- 
other letter,  saying  positively  that  she  would  come  to 
England  "almost  immediately  to  arrange  something 
about  the  children."  "I  won't  let  her  arrange  any- 
thing, they  are  mine — mine  only,"  she  cried  to  herself, 
"and  no  one  else  shall  arrange  their  lives." 

She  remembered  her  own  childhood,  its  early  isola- 
tion, its  sense  that  she  was  in  the  way  and  unwanted, 
that  her  nature  and  outlook  were  considered  tiresome. 
Later,  as  she  grew  up  and  was  pretty,  she  had  been  an 
interest  to  her  mother,  who  tried  to  encourage  feminine 
vanity  and  extravagances  in  her,  to  nourish  ambitions, 
and  to  instruct  her  in  the  little  wordly  ways  she  hated 
and  despised.  Her  cousin,  Edward  Stockton,  a  peer  and 
rich,  was  carefully  brought  on  the  scene.  She  did  not 
think  he  cared  for  her  very  much.  He  was  a  man  of 
theories  rather  than  emotions.  He  had  liked  her  sim- 

122 


Miss  Fingal  123 

plicity,  her  love  of  the  country,  of  poetry  and  music,  of 
all  that  he  thought  desirable  to  a  half-intellectual,  well- 
ordered  manner  of  life,  the  life  he  meant  to  lead  when 
he  was  tired  of  social  experiments.  He  belonged  to  all' 
sorts  of  Societies  at  present;  he  looked  after  charities, 
occasionally  gave  large  sums  to  them,  and  wore  an  air 
of  conscious  virtue  and  of  having  a  reserve  of  goodness 
to  call  upon,  though  for  philanthropic  reasons  he 
mingled  with  the  world.  Linda  had  the  intuition  with 
which  the  unsophisticated  are  often  endowed,  as  com- 
pensation perhaps  for  their  lack  of  actual  knowledge, 
and  knew  that  he  enjoyed  the  queer  dissipations  to 
which  he  took  himself  with  a  half-chastened,  half-benevo- 
lent smile  on  his  clean-shaven  face.  She  heard  of  his 
lecturing  at  night-refuges,  of  his  visiting  settlements; 
but  behind  everything  she  felt  that  there  was  curiosity 
or  theory  rather  than  heart  and  human  sympathy,  just 
as  behind  his  desire  to  marry  her  she  felt  there  was 
theory  and  approval  of  the  project  rather  than  love. 
Lady  Hester  was  always  sensible  of  his  title  and  £20,000 
a  year,  and  wanted  Linda  to  share  them;  but  it  was 
no  good.  Linda  refused  him,  and  fell  in  love  with 
Dick  Alliston.  Lady  Hester  made  the  best  of  it,  she 
always  made  the  best  of  things,  gave  them  the  cottage 
and  went  abroad.  She  was  a  handsome  woman  still, 
even  in  middle  age,  and  soft-mannered,  with  a  charm 
for  all  sorts  of  people.  The  other  sex  was  conscious 
of  it  even  yet.  Lately,  in  letters  from  Mentone,  there 
had  been  mention  of  "a  dear  simple-minded  man,  a 
millionaire  from  the  Argentine,  who  is  not  learned  but 
anxious  to  bathe  his  naturally  refined  soul  in  the  right 
sort  of  companionship.  We  have  become  great  friends, 
and  I  have  talked  to  him  so  much  about  your  children, 
dearest.  He  could  do  a  great  deal  for  them."  Linda 
knew  the  signs  and  shuddered.  Then  before  her  vision 
there  came  the  figure  of  Aline  Fingal.  "On  Saturday 
she  will  come;  what  a  rest  it  is  to  think  of  her — " 

Suddenly  a  sound  caught  her  ear,  the  clanging  of  the 
farm  gate  at  the  front  of  the  house,  she  could  hear  it 
sometimes;  and  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell — it  had  a 
deep  tone  that  made  its  sound  like  a  tradition.  "Aline 


124  Miss  Fingal 

is  not  coming  to-day,"  she  thought;  "perhaps  it  is 
some  one  to  ask  if  the  rooms  are  let."  People  came 
occasionally,  and  a  sense  of  satisfaction  always  possessed 
her  for  a  little  while  when  they  were  refused,  and  she 
knew  herself  safe  in  her  refuge.  She  heard  voices  on 
the  stairs  and  footsteps — she  held  her  breath,  and  sat 
listening.  There  was  a  moment's  hesitation  outside  the 
door  before  Mrs.  Kitson,  the  farmer's  wife,  entered.  She 
held  a  card  in  her  hand.  "There's  a  lady,"  she  said, 
"come  in  a  motor  and  wants  to  see  you." 

Linda  read  the  name,  an  exclamation  escaped  her 
lips ;  she  rose  to  her  feet  and,  crossing  the  room,  stood 
leaning  against  the  piano.  Her  eyes  flashed  with  amaze- 
ment and  anger. 

"I  can't  see  her,"  she  said;  "tell  her  to  go  away." 

There  was  a  little  sound  outside.  "Oh,  do  see  me, 
please,"  and  the  speaker  entered. 

The  farmer's  wife  went  out  and  shut  the  door,  leaving 
them  together. 

"This  is  an  outrage;  how  could  you  come?" 

"It  took  courage."  The  voice  was  clear  and  reck- 
less, suggestive  of  laughter.  "Praise  that,  if  there's 
nothing  else  that's  right."  She  held  out  her  hands,  but 
Linda  drew  back.  "Look  here,  don't  let's  be  theat- 
rical— I  get  enough  of  that;  we  are  two  women  and  we 
are  sensible,  and  I  should  think  you'd  know  I  couldn't 
have  come  if  it  were  anything  disagreeable — or  to  be 
unkind."  The  tone  and  manner  were  common,  but  they 
were  natural  and  human. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Mayn't  I  sit  down?"  The  motor-coat  was  opened 
and  thrown  aside,  the  veil  unwound  that  had  enveloped 
the  head.  Linda,  staring  at  her,  saw  that  she  was  young 
and  pretty,  with  red  lips  and  a  soft  complexion — art  as 
well  as  nature  had  some  knowledge  of  them — and  masses 
of  fair  hair  that  showed  beneath  the  small  fur-trimmed 
hat.  She  was  about  four-and-twenty,  round,  not  plump, 
had  evidently  fed  well  and  drank  well  and  lived  in  com- 
fortable surroundings:  a  strange  contrast  to  the  pale 
and  emaciated  girl  shrinking  against  the  piano,  with  a 
passionate  protest  flashing  from  her  eyes. 


Miss  Fingal  125 

For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other.  "What 
have  you  come  for?"  Linda  asked,  stupefied  with  aston- 
ishment at  the  insult  of  the  visit.  "How  could  you 
dare " 

"Well,  really,  I  don't  know  how  I  did.  But  it's  no 
good  beating  about  the  bush,  is  it?  so  I'll  tell  you " 

"Does  he  know?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Hasn't  the  least  idea.  I  found  out 
where  you  were  from  Albery  Wynne,  the  throat  doctor. 
He  has  been  looking  after  me.  Dick  would  be  pretty 
furious  if  he  knew — he  can  let  one  have  it  if  he  tries. 

It's  just  this "  She  stopped  to  gather  courage: 

"Your  face  has  haunted  me  ever  since  I  saw  you  in 
court,  the  day  of  the  case — didn't  know  I  was  there,  did 
you?  I  was  hidden  away  at  the  back?  You  mayn't 
believe  it,  but  I  felt  a  thorough  beast — it  isn't  my  fault 
as  much  as  you  think,  for  I  give  you  my  word,  two 
months  before — and  the  case  was  coming  on  then — I 
didn't  know  he  was  married,  hadn't  an  idea  of  it." 

"He  didn't  tell  you?" 

"Not  a  word,  and  no  one  else  did.  They  are  always 
pretty  shy  of  speaking  of  their  people  to  my  sort.  I  had 
seen  a  good  deal  of  him  in  London,  too,  but  he  didn't 
care  a  snap  about  me  then;  you  had  tucked  yourself 
away  in  the  country,  and  he  was  going  on  pretty  rapid 
with  Lady  Donnet — she  didn't  care  for  him,  and  I  did. 
He  never  looked  at  me  all  that  time,  I  swear  he  didn't. 
Then  I  went  off  to  Paris  with  Violet  Horton.  She  was 
a  queer  lot,  though  she  was  somebody,  I  suppose.  We 
had  a  great  lark  there  till  her  husband — Tommy  Horton, 
you  know — and  Dick  dropped  down  on  us.  Tommy 
took  her  off  pretty  quickly,  and  I  got  my  chance  and 
fastened  on  to  Dick.  I  am  speaking  quite  straight.  I 
pretended  I  didn't  care  a  chip  for  him,  but  I  did  all  I 
knew  to  get  him — I  own  that.  He  and  I  stayed  behind 
and  had  a  lovely  time.  But  I  never  dreamt  of  you." 
She  spoke  quickly,  her  manner  changed  and  it  was 
impossible  not  to  believe  her.  A  cloud  went  over  the 
pretty  pink-and-white  face.  She  was  almost  distressed. 
"If  I  had  known,  I  would  have  died  first.  I  don't  mind 
treating  a  man  badly — what's  he  for?  Don't  they  pay 


126  Miss  Fingal 

us  out?  But  a  woman — well,  I  never  did  that  before. 
I  never  would — it's  where  I  draw  the  line — and  it's  cut 
pretty  deep  into  me,  I  can  tell  you,  though  he's  just  the 
world  to  me  now — same  as  he  was  to  you  perhaps?  I 
believe  I'd  die  for  him — and  without  any  fuss — same  as 
you — "  she  added  under  her  breath  and  stopped  aghast. 
But  Linda  made  no  sound,  only  stood  staring  at  her, 
half  dazed.  "You  see,  Dick's  the  sort  of  man  one  can't 
keep  long — that's  what's  the  matter  with  him.  I  expect 
he  was  longest  with  you — you  had  the  best  of  him. 
But  once  he  has  got  a  woman  he  is  tired  of  her  in  no 
time.  Lots  of  men  are  like  that.  And  they  are  not  as 
bad  as  they  look.  They  can't  help  it.  They  are  like 
bees  that  go  along  from  flower  to  flower  in  a  garden. 
And  they  like  the  sort  that  doesn't  worry,  but  takes  it 
easy." 

"What  have  you  come  for?" 

"Well,  I'm  telling  you,  but  I  can't  think  how  I  am 
going  to  get  it  all  out.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  am 
not  as  bad  as  you  think.  I  heard  about  you  from  Albery 
Wynne,  and  it  cut  me.  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  if  you 
can.  I  haven't  done  you  as  much  harm  as  it  looks, 
for  if  it  hadn't  been  me  it  might  have  been  somebody 
else — so  what  does  it  matter?  But  it  will  finish  me  up 
if  he  chucks  me — and  he  will.  I  know  that.  I  daren't 
think  of  it.  I  own  it — it's  no  good  lying.  I  just  dread 
losing  him  altogether,  though  it  may  not  hurt  me  as 
much  as  it  does  you,  for  I've  got  the  excitement  of 
the  theatre,  and  one  can't  have  it  all  ways.  He  likes 
money,  too — at  least  he  likes  what  it  does.  He  hasn't 
taken  any  of  mine — won't  touch  it — but  he  hasn't  much 
of  his  own  now,  and  he  spends  pretty  freely,  and  when 
his  is  all  gone  he  can  come  on  me." 

"He  never  will." 

"Well,  anyway,  I  can  make  heaps,  and  if  he  chooses 
it  will  be  there  for  him.  That's  one  way  I've  got  the 
pull  on  you.  But,"  with  a  sudden  rush  of  passion,  "I 
wouldn't  have  done  it  if  I'd  known.  I  swear  I  wouldn't. 
I  would  have  cut  off  my  right  hand  first — and  my  foot 
too  for  that  matter.  Then  I  should  never  have  danced 
again,  and  been  no  good." 


Miss  Fingal  127 

"Is  he  going  to  marry  you?" 

"Don't  know.  Depends  a  good  deal  on  whether  I'll 
marry  him."  Some  subtle  change  in  her  voice  betrayed 
that  she  was  lying,  but  Linda  was  too  dazed  to  discern 
it.  "It's  a  big  step  is  marriage.  Don't  know  whether 
I  dare  risk  it.  One  side  is  pretty  sure  to  get  tired  of  it, 
and  it  might  be  me,  though  I  don't  think  it  would. 
Two  months  yet  before  the  decree  is  made  absolute,  so 
there's  plenty  of  time."  She  considered  for  a  moment, 
then  went  on  with  a  little  burst.  "I  know  it's  pretty 
bad  of  me  to  come,  but  I  had  to.  I  was  awfully  taken 
aback  after  I  had  seen  Albery  Wynne — he  isn't  a  man  to 
mince  matters  any  more  than  Dick.  I  am  awfully  gone 
on  Dick — awfully.  If  he  married  me,  and  left  me  as  he 
did  you,  I  believe  I  should  go  out  of  my  mind.  I  didn't 
let  him  know  that  I  cared  about  him  for  a  long  time, 
but  I  expect  he  knows  pretty  well  now.  .  .  .  I'm  going 
mad  for  him,  and  I  can't  help  it,  so  that's  the  truth. 
And  what  I  have  thought  is  that  if  I  married  him  I 
might  keep  him  if  I  had  your  kiddies " 

"If  you  had  them!"  Linda  turned  on  her  fierce  and 
breathless.  "I  would  rather  see  them  lying  dead.  .  .  . 
Has  he  spoken  of  them?"  she  asked  with  a  sudden  drop. 

The  woman  nodded.  "Not  to  me,  but  he  has  to 
others.  That's  how  I  know.  He  only  cursed  me — once 
when  I  tried  to  talk  of  them.  You  see,  he  hasn't  for- 
given me  for  landing  him  in  court,  though  it  wasn't 
my  fault,  there  were  such  a  lot  of  people  about  telling 
tales,  and  not  minding  their  own  business." 

"Does  he  know  anything  about  me?" 

She  nodded  again.  "I  hear  he  is  awfully  cut  up  at 
your  being  ill.  He  went  to  Albery  Wynne  too,  not  when 
I  did,  but  he  is  a  friend  of  his — brother  of  the  doctor 
who  lives  here — and  asked  all  about  you." 

The  face  that  had  become  white  and  rigid  looked  up. 
"Then  he  knows — but  it  isn't  true — the  doctor  is  wrong 
— I  am  stronger  than  he  thinks.  I  mean  to  get  well." 
The  voice  was  dogged  and  determined. 

"Well,  I  hope  so,  of  course  I  just  do."  There  was 
passionate  truth  in  the  words.  "For  one  thing  if  you 
don't,  I  should  feel  that  it  was  through  me,  though  it 


128  Miss  Fingal 

isn't — that  is,  all  of  it.  But — well,  look  here,  we  never 
know  what  is  before  us,  and  what  I  want  to  say  is  this — " 
Her  voice  had  become  soft  and  urging,  her  eyes  had 
grown  tender;  she  reached  out  her  hands  for  a  moment, 
almost  as  an  entreaty.  "If  anything  did  happen — one 
never  knows,  of  course — the  doctor  says  there  isn't  any 
one  belonging  to  you  except  Lady  Gilston,  or  some 
name  like  that,  and  she's  got  her  own  lot  to  look  after — 
and  your  mother,  but  I  heard  that  your  mother's  no 
good — gone  off  to  Italy  or  somewhere — isn't  the  sort  to 
want  kids  to  look  after.  Well — if  anything  does  go 
wrong — I  heard  you  were  anxious  about  them." 

Linda's  hand  went  up  to  her  throat,  her  breathing 
came  quick  and  short,  her  eyes  were  fastened  on  the 
woman  before  her,  but  to  speak  was  impossible. 

"I'd  do  everything  for  them,"  she  went  on;  "I'd 
marry  him;  and  I  believe  I  could  keep  him — if  I  had 
them.  I'd  bring  them  up  just  as  you'd  like,  and  so 
would  he — I'd  make  him — and  I'd  love  them.  I'd  love 
them  as  if  they  were  my  own,  and  I'll  never  have  any 
whether  I  marry  or  not — you  had  better  know  that — 
never  can.  I'm  making  heaps  of  money.  I've  got  a 
good  bit  put  out.  A  friend  of  mine  did  it  awfully  well 
for  me,  and  I'd  settle  it  all  on  them.  They  shouldn't  go 
on  the  stage.  And  I'd  take  care  they  didn't  do  as  I've 
done.  They  should  be  brought  up  lady  and  gentleman 
— the  boy  should  go  to  college — they  should  go  abroad, 
and  I'd  do  everything  for  them.  Don't  you  see,  they've 
Dick's  life  in  them,  the  best  of  it,  the  part  you  had. 
I've  only  got  the  dregs  of  him,  I've  only  had  dregs  all 
my  life.  Money  and  all  is  only  dregs  when  it  comes  in 
the  way  it  does  to  me." 

"I  want  you  to  go  away,"  so  quiet  a  voice  said  it  that 
it  almost  startled  the  listener.  "They  are  my  children 
— mine,  not  his  any  longer — mine,  and  in  that  way  he 
is  mine  still — the  rest  is  yours.  I'm  glad  I've  seen  you, 
that  you  didn't  know,  but — I  don't  want  to  say  it  with 
any  arrogance — but  he  and  you  and  all  that  has  hap- 
pened, and  all  the  things  with  which  you  are  concerned, 
belong  to  some  other  world  than  the  one  I  have  come  to 
know  about  lately — I  am  journeying  on  in  it." 


Miss  Fingal  129 

She  did  not  understand.  "But — if  anything  happened 
— I  don't  want  to  frighten  you,  but  you  never  know — " 
she  stopped.  "I  mean  about  the  children." 

"I  shall  keep  them.  Living  or  dead,  I  will  keep 
them." 

"You  can't  keep  them  if " 

"I  will." 

"Well!"  It  was  the  other  woman  who  staggered 
back  this  time,  for  the  tone  made  her  feel  that  it  was 
true  .  .  .  that  they  were  standing  in  different  worlds, 
and  speaking  across  the  distance  between.  "But  I'd 
like  to  do  something  to — isn't  there  anything  you  want?" 
It  was  almost  an  entreaty. 

"I  want  you  to  go  away.  Marry  him  if  you  like,  but 
go — I  want  you  to  go.  If  there's  any  reparation  you 
are  trying  to  make,  let  it  take  the  form  of  vanishing 
completely  from  me  and  mine." 

"Well!"  in  a  lower  tone,  "I  am  sorry.  I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  see  it — I  meant  to  do  what  I  could." 

"Yes,  I  see  it;  and  you  are  better  than  I  thought." 

The  woman  stood  still  for  a  moment,  then  went  a 
step  towards  the  door  and  stopped.  "Just  say  that 
you  forgive  me.  I  dare  say  you  don't  really,  but  I'd 
like  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"Oh  yes,"  with  a  tragic  weariness  that  smote  her 
visitor,  "I  forgive  you.  But  please  go." 

"I  will."  She  turned  away,  then  stopped.  "Look 
here,  perhaps  we're  both  wound  up  a  bit  now,  but  if  you 
think  better  of  it  I'll  do  all  I've  said;  and  they'd  get  him 
then,  you  know.  And  I'm  not — not  such  a  beast  as 
you've  thought  me.  I'd  do  everything  I  could  for 
them.  I  believe  I'd  love  them  so  much  they'd  make  me 
different."  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  Linda  said ;  and  once  more  she  repeated, 
this  time  very  gently,  "But  I  want  you  to  go  away.  I 
don't  wish  to  hurt  you,  but  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer. 
I  entreat  you  to  go." 

"All  right,"  in  an  almost  frightened  voice,  "I'm  off." 
She  gathered  up  the  motor-coat  and  the  veil,  cast  one 
look  back,  a  bewildered,  baffled  look  at  the  room,  and  dis- 
appeared. The  stairs  creaked  as  her  feet  touched  them. 


130  Miss  Fingal 

Linda  stood  listening,  clasping  her  head  with  her 
hands.  The  door  had  been  left  open.  Downstairs  the 
woman  was  putting  on  her  coat  and  veil — she  spoke 
to  some  one  who  saw  her  out.  .  .  .  She  heard  the 
chauffeur  set  the  machine  going — she  heard  it  start, 
and  went  out  to  a  landing  at  the  front  of  the  house, 
whence  she  could  see  the  road.  .  .  .  The  motor  was 
already  beyond  the  farm  gate,  through  a  cloud  of  dust 
that  rose  as  if  to  hide  it  she  could  just  see  it  speeding 
away.  In  a  moment  it  had  vanished.  .  .  .  The  farmer's 
wife  was  in  the  hall." 

"Do  you  know  where  the  children  are?"  Linda 
asked. 

And  the  answer  came,  "They've  gone  to  see  the 
cows  milked.  They'll  be  in  directly." 

She  went  back  to  the  room  and  opened  the  window, 
wider  still,  as  if  to  change  the  atmosphere,  then  sat 
down  on  the  basket-chair  that  had  many  cushions,  and 
leaning  her  arms  on  the  deep  ledge  looked  out — she  was 
trembling — breathless,  only  half-alive.  The  scent  of 
violets  came  up  to  her.  She  saw  the  whiteness  of  the 
snowdrops — they  were  nearly  over — the  lilac  bush  by  the 
hedge  waiting  for  the  spring,  and  the  trees  that  seemed 
to  be  holding  out  their  brown  arms  inviting  it.  But 
to  all  this  she  was  insensible;  her  whole  being  was 
merged  in  a  prayer,  an  entreaty,  her  lips  moved  to  it, 
though  no  sound  came  from  them — "Let  me  live,  dear 
Heaven,  let  me  live!"  The  sunlight  suddenly  found  her 
eyes  and  blinded  her,  though  she  welcomed  its  warmth. 
She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  resting  them  on  the 
window  cushion,  and  prayed  to  heaven — to  the  sun — to 
anything  that  was  divine — always  the  same  prayer — "O 
God,  let  me  live — let  me  live!"  till  the  intensity  of  it 
seemed  to  bring  unseen  presences  round  her.  They 
gathered  nearer  and  nearer — she  felt  the  touch  of  their 
intangible  hands — she  knew  they  were  bending  over  her; 
with  some  strange  second  consciousness  she  could  see  the 
way — the  road  along  which  they  had  come,  the  boundary 
of  a  world  that  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  be.  ... 

The  prayer  died  down  from  her  silent  lips  into  her 
heart  .  .  .  the  room  was  empty  again,  and  very  still — 


Miss  Fingal  131 

but  she  was  afraid  to  move,  to  raise  her  head.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  seen  the  road  that  leads  from  life  to 
death,  from  death  to  life — knowing  that  soon  she  would 
be  a  fugitive,  seeking  shelter,  looking  back  at  the  world, 
wringing  her  hands  .  .  .  and  the  children — the  children! 
Then  through  the  distance,  from  beyond  the  hedge  at 
the  garden  gate,  on  their  way  from  the  outbuildings,  past 
the  high  trees,  she  heard  Janet  singing.  She  raised  her 
head  and  listened — they  were  coming — they  had  seen  the 
cows  milked — there  was  a  little  pause  as  if  they  had 
halted — then  a  voice  that  was  sweet  and  true  went  on — 

"Wha'll  buy  my  caller  herrin'? 
They're  bonnie  fish  and  halesome  farin'; 

Buy  my  caller  herrin', 
New-drawn  frae  the  Forth." 

The  beating  of  a  child's  drum,  with  a  first  sense  of 
time — it  was  wonderful  to  hear  it — and  they  came  in 
sight,  the  red-haired  Scots  girl  carrying  the  baby,  and 
the  little  fair-haired  boy  walking  close  to  her  skirt,  a  toy 
drum  slung  round  his  shoulder  and  a  stick  in  either 
hand.  The  shifting  sunlight  fell  on  them  as  they  came 
through  the  gate. 

"Oh,  to  live — to  live,"  moaned  the  watcher  at  the 
window.  "Dear  God,  give  me  any  agony  you  will,  but 
let  me  stay  with  them."  She  reached  out  her  hands, 
waited  and  grew  calm;  for  the  comfort  of  knowledge 
she  could  not  identify  stole  over  her,  and  soothed  her, 
and  gave  her  peace. 


XVIII. 

THE  car  went  swiftly  along  the  lane.  The  woman  in 
it  sat  very  still. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  gone,"  she  thought  as  it  turned  into 
the  road  beside  the  common.  "I  expect  I  haven't  done 
her  any  good — with  that  cough  too.  I  wish  I  hadn't 
seen  her.  I'll  never  forget  it.  But  I'm  mad  about  Dick 
— that's  about  it — and  I  don't  know  why.  There  are 
lots  of  better  men.  Can't  think  how  I  could  be  such  a 
fool  to  be  caught  like  this — but  I  am — "  She  looked 
up  quickly;  there  were  people  running  along  the  road, 
hurrying  across  the  common.  By  the  'White  Hart' 
an  excited  crowd  had  gathered,  that  reached  to  the  corner 
near  the  station.  "Just  stop  and  ask  what's  up,  Peters," 
she  said  to  the  chauffeur.  She  leant  forward  to  hear. 

"Accident  on  the  line." 

The  crowd  separated,  and  through  it  came  some  men 
carrying  a  form  on  a  stretcher;  they  disappeared  with  it 
into  the  hotel.  The  windows  of  the  room  on  the  first 
floor  were  opened  wide  a  minute  later,  and  the  people 
looked  up  as  if  they  knew  whither  the  carriers  had  taken 
the  body  on  the  stretcher.  "Oh  no,  she  isn't  dead,"  one 
of  them  said,  "I  saw  her  hand  as  they  went  in  the  door- 
way— it  wasn't  a  dead  one." 

"It's  the  lady  that's  been  staying  there.  I've  seen 
her  about." 

"Lucky  there  was  a  doctor  in  the  train,  and  he  wasn't 
hurt." 

"That's  why  Dr.  Wynne's  able  to  go  in  and  look  after 
her  at  once." 

He  came  out  a  minute  later,  and  looked  round  as  if  for 
a  messenger,  and  his  gaze  rested  on  the  motor  and  the 

132 


Miss  Fingal  133 

face  framed  by  the  open  window.  She  smiled  at  him,  a 
pathetic,  beckoning  smile. 

He  went  up  to  her  and,  wondering  who  she  was,  he 
saw  the  blue  eyes  and  red  lips,  and  the  lovely  golden  hair 
pulled  across  her  forehead;  the  head  was  covered  by  a 
little  velvet  cap  edged  with  fur — she  had  been  too  agi- 
tated on  leaving  Highbrook  Farm  to  put  on  the  swathing 
motor-veil  again. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  use — or  the  car?"  she  asked. 

"You  are  very  kind — "  he  hesitated. 

"I  think  you  are  a  brother  of  Dr.  Albery  Wynne — I'm 
one  of  his  patients — can  I  do  anything  to  help?" 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  but  there  was  no  time 
to  waste.  "Are  you  going  back  to  London?" 

"Yes — now — but  I  could  wait,  or  go  anywhere — or  do 
anything  there.  I'd  like  to  be  useful." 

"I  think  we  have  met — "  He  was  not  making  any 
mistake  about  her  now. 

"Cissie  Repton." 

"Ah— Cherry  Ripe."    He  smiled. 

"That's  it,"  she  answered  quickly. 

"Strange  you  should  be  at  Leesbury,"  he  said,  half  to 
himself.  "We've  telegraphed  to  London  already  for  a 
surgeon  and  nurses,  and  an  ambulance  is  on  its  way 
from  Amersham." 

"Is  she  dead — that  one  you  carried  in,  I  mean?" 

"No,  but  a  good  deal  hurt — bad  concussion.  I  don't 
expect  she'll  recover  consciousness  just  yet.  By  the 
way,  there's  one  thing  you  might  do  if  you  are  going  up 
to  London." 

"Yes?"  eagerly. 

"They  don't  seem  to  know  anything  about  her  here, 
except  that  she  lives  in  Bedford  Square — she's  a  Miss 
Fingal.  We  have  telegraphed  there,  to  the  servants,  but 
if  you  could  call  and  explain  more  fully  what  has 
happened  ?" 

"I'll  go,  right  away,"  she  answered  quickly. 

He  smiled.    "I  think  you  are  busy  every  evening?" 

"Yes,  but  my  turn  doesn't  come  on  till  ten  o'clock, 
so  there's  lots  of  time.  Isn't  there  anything  else  I 
can  do?" 


134  Miss  Fingal 

"No,  I  think  not — very  good  of  you — "  All  the 
time  he  was  feasting  his  eyes  on  her  face:  for  man  is 
only  human  and  not  blind — even  when  he  is  a  doctor 
with  a  railway  catastrophe  in  hand. 

"Just  tell  me,"  she  said,  "was  it  pretty  bad  up  at  the 
station — what  happened  ?" 

"A  signalman's  mistake,  I  understand,  the  fast  train 
overtook  an  ordinary  one." 

"Jumped  over  it?" 

"Yes,  jumped  over  it,  as  you  say,  and  there  are  a  good 
many  hurt.  Luckily,  the  end  of  the  train  was  pretty 
empty."  He  moved  back  from  the  car. 

She  took  it  as  a  hint  to  go.  The  crowd  that  had 
played  audience,  though  at  a  respectful  distance,  made 
way  for  it  to  start.  "Well,  look  here,  doctor,  if  any 
one's  hurt  that's  very  poor,  just  let  me  know,  and  I'll 
send  a  cheque  along.  Your  brother's  been  awfully  kind 
to  me." 

"Glad  to  hear  it.  He's  a  good  chap."  He  shook 
her  hand;  he  couldn't  resist  giving  the  fingers  a  little 
squeeze.  "Shall  I  tell  the  chauffeur  to  go  straight  to 
Bedford  Square?" 

She  answered  with  a  nod  and  a  smiling — not  too 
smiling — glance.  He  gave  the  direction,  and  the  car 
moved  on. 

"Well,  this  is  a  queer  show,"  she  thought.  "I 
wonder  why  I  should  come  on  it,  and  why  there 
should  be  such  bad  luck  about — what's  the  use  of  it? 
That's  the  sort  of  thing  Dick  used  to  wonder — Dick ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  little  sister  Ann,  but  I'd  give  the  world  to 
see  him  and  feel  him  kissing  me  again.  He's  a 
precious  queer  lot,  and  I  expect  that's  why  I'm  such 
a  fool  about  him,  for  I  wouldn't  mind  doing  a  month 
in  hell  if  I  might  have  him  for  a  week  out  of  it."  She 
leant  her  head  against  the  padded  side  of  the  car. 
"It's  rotten  luck  caring  about  any  one  like  this."  She 
shut  her  eyes  and  struggled  to  get  calm.  "I  wish  I 
hadn't  seen  her  to-day.  She'll  haunt  me  all  the  time 
after  I  hear  she's  dead.  ...  I  was  a  beast,  for  I  only 
did  it  to  pay  him  off  for  not  caring  at  first — and  I  don't 
believe  he  did,  even  at  last — and  I  have  been  caught  like 


Miss  Fingal  135 

this."  .  .  .  Her  thoughts  drifted  away,  till  she  saw 
in  a  waking  dream  two  children  picking  strawberries 
in  a  country  garden,  and  a  woman  with  an  apron  over 
her  arm  watching  them.  "No  use,  I  couldn't  have  done 
it,  I  should  have  died  of  that  game,"  she  said.  "Things 
were  different  in  mother's  time,  but  'tisn't  any  good 
being  alive  now  unless  you  live.  And  I  mustn't  take 
on,  or  I  shall  be  looking  old,  and  then  it  will  be  all 
up  with  me." 

There  were  long  ladders  before  the  house  in  Bedford 
Square. 

"Doing  it  up,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  wonder  who 
she  is — perhaps  she's  a  rich  old  maid.  He  didn't  say 
she  was  a  girl,  and  she  wouldn't  have  been  staying  there 
alone  if  she  had  been." 

Stimson  came  to  the  door,  obviously  trying  to  hide 
the  fact  that  he  was  agitated.  He  gathered  quickly 
why  she  had  come.  It  was  a  great  relief,  they  had 
been  much  upset  by  the  telegram.  He  was  just  getting 
ready  to  go  to  Leesbury  by  the  6.30.  Miss  Fingal  was 
a  lady  who  lived  alone;  but  he  had  telegraphed  to  her 
lawyer,  Mr.  Bendish. 

"Why  didn't  you  telephone?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"We  haven't  one  in  the  house,  never  had,"  he 
answered  with  dignity. 

"Is  she  young  or  old?  No  telephone  sounds  pretty 
old-fashioned,  doesn't  it?" 

"She's  not  old,  ma'am."  He  resented  her  manner, 
and  showed  it.  "But  she's  a  lady  who  doesn't  care  for 
— some  things." 

"I  see.  Rather  slow?  Well,  I  hope  you'll  find  her 
alive  anyhow."  She  turned  away. 

Stimson,  who  prided  himself  on  never  forgetting  what 
was  due  to  people,  followed  her  to  the  car.  "Who 
shall  I  say  called,  ma'am?"  he  asked. 

"There  isn't  any  one  to  say  it  to,  is  there?" 

"There's  Mr.  Bendish,  ma'am — and  Sir  James  Gil- 
ston  will  have  to  know."  He  thought  it  as  well  to 
show  her  that  Miss  Fingal  had  important  friends. 

"Sir  James  Gilston?  Why,  I've  just  been  to  see  his 
cousin,  or  whatever  she  is — Mrs,  Alliston  at  Leesbury, 


136  Miss  Fingal 

so  you  can  tell  him  Miss  Cissie  Repton.  And  say 
'Home'  to  the  chauffeur." 

The  devil  had  entered  into  her,  and  she  couldn't  resist 
this  parting  bombshell.  It  was  one,  even  to  Stimson, 
for  he  remembered  the  divorce  suit,  and  knew  the 
details  of  it  well  enough;  in  his  astonishment  he  stood 
still  on  the  wide  pavement  and  watched  the  car  out 
of  sight,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  its  returning  to  contami- 
nate the  highly  sedate  square  in  which  he  lived. 

But  Cherry  Ripe  was  reckless.  She  felt  that  she 
wanted  to  shock  or  hurt  some  one — any  one,  it  didn't 
matter  whom — to  compensate  herself  for  the  tragedy 
of  the  afternoon:  it  had  shocked  and  hurt  her,  and  she 
was  desperately  trying  to  shed  her  pain. 

She  lived  close  to  Victoria — in  Carlisle  Mansions — 
on  the  ground  floor,  even  with  the  street.  "I  don't  see 
myself  staircasing,  or  going  up  in  a  lift  when  I  come 
home  at  night,"  she  had  told  the  agent,  "and  I  don't 
want  my  friends  stared  at,  or  taken  stock  of.  They'll 
be  able  to  slip  in  and  out  if  I'm  on  the  even."  The 
flat  was  fairly  large,  and  crowded  with  expensive  furni- 
ture that  worried  her  a  good  deal.  "I  don't  see  the  use 
of  all  these  things.  They  don't  do  me  any  good,"  she 
said  to  herself  sometimes.  "I  only  feel  as  if  I  was  acting 
among  them,  not  as  if  I  was  living  with  them,  and  I 
wish  now  I  had  gone  up  to  the  top,  there's  a  lift 
to  it.  I  seem  to  feel  the  weight  of  all  these  floors 
on  my  head  when  I'm  in  the  blues."  She  felt  it  to- 
night after  the  visit  to  Bedford  Square.  "Twenty  to 
ten  as  usual,"  she  told  the  chauffeur,  as  she  let  herself 
in  wkh  a  latch-key.  An  elderly  maid  came  forward  to 
meet  her.  "It's  all  right,  Lydia,"  she  said.  "Don't 
bother  me  about  food.  I'm  going  to  lie  down  till  it's 
time  to  go."  She  hurried  to  her  room  and  shut  the 
door. 


XIX. 

THREE  hours  later  she  was  delighting  her  audience 
with  her  fresh  face,  her  innocent  voice,  and  the  pretty 
lisping  suggestiveness  of  the  words  she  sang  with  a 
bewildered  air  as  if  she  really  didn't  understand  them. 
She  was  encored  of  course,  and  came  forward  and  sang 
another  verse,  and  danced  a  few  steps,  and  panted  after 
them:  "Mustn't  get  fat,"  she  thought,  "it  would  be 
deadly."  They  encored  again,  and  suddenly  she  re- 
membered a  song  about  mother  and  bees  and  lavender 
that  a  man  at  the  beginning  of  her  career  had  written 
for  her  as  a  joke,  telling  her  that  it  went  with  her  face. 
It  reminded  her  of  the  afternoon,  and  the  waking  dream 
of  the  home  that  no  longer  existed.  She  looked  up 
with  a  little  laugh,  and  sang  it  through  without  any 
accompaniment  from  the  surprised  orchestra.  The  last 
verse  ran : — 

"And  I  want  to  go  home  to  ray  mother,  I  do — I  do; 

I  want  to  go  back  to  the  nest. 
You  may  think  it  all  rot,  but  the  little  white  cot 
Is  the  shelter  that  I  love  best — I  do-o,  I  do-oo !" 

They  laughed  and  applauded,  and  took  it  as  an  excel- 
lent joke,  all  but  a  few  who  thought  it  "lovely,"  and 
felt  sentimental.  She  stood  still  for  a  minute  by  the 
wing,  enjoying  her  triumph,  looking  at  the  inane  faces 
in  the  stalls ;  she  could  see  them  dimly  over  the  foot- 
lights, and  through  the  mist  of  cigarette  smoke  and 
human  breath.  "It's  all  lies,"  she  laughed  at  them 
and  waved  her  hand.  "I  wouldn't  leave  you  for  the 
world.  Besides,  it  isn't  there!"  It  was  an  excellent 
joke:  they  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

137 


138  Miss  Fingal 

She  went  on  to  Nevine's,  the  newest  night  club.  Cyril 
Batson  was  waiting  for  her;  and  there  was  no  one  else 
to-night  whom  she  could  hurt.  She  still  wanted  to  hurt 
some  one,  to  do  something  desperate,  and  didn't  know 
what  or  why:  the  perpetual  air  of  innocence  she  did 
not  possess,  of  happiness  that  was  her  great  asset  and 
yet  unreal,  was  driving  her  mad. 

Cyril  Batson  had  been  running  after  her  lately, 
sending  her  flowers,  or  anything  else  that  was  not  ex- 
pensive, or  he  could  get  on  credit.  She  despised  hmr 
and  showed  it.  The  odd  thing  was  that  he  was  not 
really  in  love  with  her,  he  only  wanted  to  be:  he  felt 
that  it  would  assure  him  he  was  really  a  poet.  He 
loved  passionate  and  beautiful  language ;  he  wanted  to 
write  it;  but  the  fire  refused  to  burn:  so  many  things 
interested  him  and  he  liked  adventure;  he  was  amused 
even  at  his  own  absurdity — for  he  recognised  it,  and  it 
was  all  fatal  to  his  being  a  poet.  The  worst  of  it  was 
he  couldn't  see  what  else  he  could  be  and  get  the  same 
satisfactions — so  he  waited  for  something  to  turn  up. 
Meanwhile  he  played  his  part  as  best  he  could,  and 
dangled  after  Cissie  Repton:  poets  always  had  a  great 
passion,  and  usually  a  hopeless  one ;  he  tried  to  force  one 
for  her. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  here,"  she  said  with  pleasant 
contempt  when  she  found  him  outside  her  dressing- 
room  at  the  theatre,  ready  to  take  her  on  to  the  club. 
"I  don't  know  why  I'm  going,  except  that  I'm  hungry 
— have  you  got  a  table?" 

This  was  when  they  were  in  the  car — her  car. 

"Of  course."     He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  she  flashed.  He  was  not  the  right 
man:  she  wanted  no  other  to-night. 

Nevine's  was  only  a  few  minutes  off;  cars  and  taxis 
were  arriving — almost  stealthily,  as  if  they  were  ashamed 
of  themselves  or  their  drivers  were  reluctant,  though  the 
occupants  were  not.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen 
outside,  merely  a  dark  building  and  no  lamp.  Beyond 
a  swing  door  was  a  small  dim  vestibule,  in  which  a  hall 
porter  stood  and  scrutinised  the  face  of  each  arrival, 
produced  a  book  to  be  signed,  and  then  opened  a  wide 


Miss  Fingal  139 

baize-covered  door  that  led  to  a  corridor,  covered  with 
soft  carpet,  illuminated  by  shaded  lamps,  decorated  in 
white  and  gold,  with  a  wide  red  rail,  from  which  hung 
pictures  in  black-and-white,  drawings  and  etchings 
mostly,  and  photographs  of  artistic  celebrities.  Sounds 
of  music  and  laughter,  and  the  subdued  clatter  incidental 
to  entertainment  of  any  sort,  came  from  an  open  door- 
way beyond;  occasionally  dancers  flitted  across  the 
aperture. 

The  big  room  was  full;  supper  was  going  on  at  most 
of  the  tables,  which  were  sufficiently  far  apart  to  admit 
of  a  couple  waltzing  between  them.  At  the  end,  on  a 
raised  stage,  an  Algerian  band  was  playing  a  slow  waltz. 
The  musicians  wore  a  strange  uniform,  that  seemed  to 
have  been  made  up  of  haphazard  garments,  and  fezes 
with  high  crimson-and-blue  brushes  to  them.  Occa- 
sionally they  broke  out  into  what  sounded  like  a  barbaric 
chant,  but  the  conductor,  a  strange  slightly  deformed 
figure,  in  blue  and  red,  with  wide  splashes  of  dull  and 
dirty  gold  braid,  energetically  subdued  the  voices  and 
instruments  when  they  interfered  too  much  with  other 
sounds  that  were  characteristic  of  the  place. 

They  looked  round,  she  eagerly,  he  with  curiosity,  for 
he  had  only  seen  it  once  before;  it  was  an  extravagance 
he  could  not  afford,  and  no  credit  was  given.  Luckily 
its  ways  did  not  appeal  to  him.  Dick  Alliston  had  taken 
him  the  first  time,  soon  after  it  was  started,  and  said, 
"It  is  beastly,  but  you  will  have  seen  it,  and  all  experi- 
ence is  worth  having,  though  only  a  fool  buys  the  wrong 
sort  twice."  Cyril  Batson  had  not  ventured  again,  for 
he  might  be  an  ass,  but  he  was  not  vicious,  actually  at 
any  rate,  and  in  imagination  only  as  part  of  what  he 
took  to  be  his  stock-in-trade  as  a  poet. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  "what  are  you  thinking  of? 
Haven't  you  been  here  before?" 

"Of  course,"  he  answered  in  what  he  meant  to  be  a 
sophisticated  manner. 

"I  don't  believe  you,  Bat.  You  are  always  trying  to 
live  up  to  something  that  isn't  yourself,  and  longing  for 
— what  you  won't  get." 

"Don't  say  it  is  impossible,"  he  whispered,  and  tried 


140  Miss  Fingal 

to  get  into  a  thrilling  mood;  but  it  wouldn't  come.  .  .  . 
"There's  Lady  Alton  over  there.  I  wonder  what  Alton 
thinks  of  it.  I  heard  they  didn't  get  on.  What  shall 
we  do?  Will  you  have  some  supper  at  once?" 

"I  want  to  talk  to  Lily  Floxon  first;  I  always  want 
to  speak  to  a  woman  in  a  place  of  this  sort.  There's 
Lord  Stockton  over  there.  He's  going  to  be  married 
soon.  Go  and  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  it."  She  looked 
up  at  him  with  laughing  eyes  that  showed  no  sign  of 
the  ache  beneath  them.  "You  can  come  back  in  five 
minutes."  She  sat  down  by  a  woman  who  seemed  to 
be  alone,  a  plain  woman,  oddly  out  of  place  in  her 
surroundings,  not  very  young,  and  evidently  not  much 
amused. 

"What  have  you  come  here  for,  Lily?"  she  asked. 
"This  isn't  your  sort  of  show." 

"Gilbert  brought  me." 

"Funny  to  come  with  your  husband — takes  the  cake." 

"He  is  writing  a  series  of  articles  on  night  clubs." 

"He  would  know  more  about  them  if  he  brought 
somebody  else.  How  do  you  do?"  as  the  journalist 
came  up  to  her.  Cherry  Ripe's  black  velvet  frock  and 
flashing  diamonds  and  the  beautiful  colouring  of  her 
hair  and  complexion  were  drawing  many  long  looks 
towards  her.  He  felt  that  it  was  the  right  thing  to  be 
seen  speaking  to  her. 

"I  hear  the  new  song  is  a  great  success,"  he  said,  as 
if  it  were  an  event. 

"I  dare  say,  but  there  isn't  much  to  it."  The  voice 
was  husky,  but  she  smiled  and  looked  pleased. 

"Do  you  dance  with  it?" 

"I  move  my  feet." 

"And  they  are  so  adorable."  He  went  on  to  speak 
to  some  one  else  who  beckoned  him. 

"He  has  never  seen  them;  lying  comes  natural  to 
men,  doesn't  it?"  she  said  to  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Floxon  knew  the  signs ;  she  had  been  in  musical 
comedy  in  the  provinces  before  her  marriage,  and  not 
a  success.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "something  is  wrong 
with  you.  What's  up?" 

;'Nothing's  up.    Everything's  down,  that's  all." 


Miss  Fingal  141 

"How  is  Dick  Alliston?"  significantly. 

"He's  all  right,  I  suppose.  I  don't  trouble  myself 
too  much  about  him — or  any  one  else.  There's  Celia 
Berrymore  over  there.  If  I  were  an  aristocrat  I'd 
behave  like  one;  she  was  carried  out  the  other  night. 
Can't  think  what  her  game  is,  coming  here — it's  no 
good  to  her  anyway.  I  wonder  what  she  is  like  when 
she's  with  her  relations  in  Scotland.  I  was  on  a  yacht 
la&t  year  going  up  the  loch  by  her  uncle's  castle — it's 
a  splendid  place — they  were  all  having  tea  at  the 
chaplain's  cottage  right  on  the  shore.  I  picked  her 
out " 

"What  were  you  doing  there?"  That  sort  of  thing 
had  never  happened  to  Lily  in  her  professional  days. 

"Staying  with  a  man  who  has  a  house  down  at  the 
other  end — a  rich  cotton  man.  Dick  came  and  fetched 
me  out  of  it — sort  of  thing  he  did — does — "  she  corrected 
herself. 

"I  saw  Lady  Celia  B.  dining  with  him  at  the 
Berkeley  a  few  days  ago." 

"Doesn't  matter  a  row  of  pins.  He  never  takes  on 
with  that  sort  of  truck — likes  the  genuine  article  better; 
she  and  her  set  can  stand  about  in  tableaux  and  go  as 
naked  as  they  please.  They  only  let  themselves  down 
and  prop  us  up." 

"Is  he  all  right?"  Mrs.  Floxon  asked  again. 

"I  suppose  so.  I  haven't  seen  him  the  last  half-hour, 
couldn't  be  bothered.  He's  too  mad.  Cyril  Batson 
brought  me  on  to-night — he's  the  poet " 

"Gilbert  knows  him.  He  hasn't  a  penny.  He  told 
Gilbert  that  his  aunt — she's  very  rich  and  lives  in  Queen's 
Gate — wants  him  to  marry  an  heiress.  She  had  him 
down  to  her  place  in  the  country  near  Wavercombe, 
and  took  him  to  see  one  who  lives  in  a  cottage  Dick 
Alliston  had  once." 

"I  must  ask  him  about  her — look  here,  he's  waiting 
for  me  and  I  want  my  supper."  She  turned  a  radiant 
face  towards  Cyril  Batson:  it  enchanted  him,  for  she  had 
seemed  bored  with  him  before.  "I  am  very  hungry, 
Bat,  dear,"  she  said,  going  past  Mrs.  Floxon  as  if  she 
had  no  further  use  for  her,  "and  you  must  give  me  a 


142  Miss  Fingal 

long  drink — in  a  pint  pot."  They  sat  down  side  by  side 
at  their  table.  "Why  did  you  take  one  so  near  the 
Berrymore  trollop?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  mind  ?" 

"I  hate  her — I  wonder  if  this  is  fit  to  eat,"  as  a  plate 
was  put  down  to  her. 

"Why  do  you  hate  her?" 

"Just  for  exercise.  A  bit  of  hate  keeps  one  alive 
when  you  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  the  other 
thing.  But  anyway  if  I'd  been  her  sort  I  would  have 
been  what  she  is  not." 

"But  you  are — lots  that  she  isn't.  I  never  saw  any 
one  like  you."  He  stooped  and  kissed  the  back  of  her 
arm.  "You  ought  to  have  been  a  goddess." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Cyril.  I'm  tired  of  all  that — sick 
of  love-making.  I  believe  I'd  behave  best  to  a  man  who 
beat  me." 

"I  want  to  take  you  right  away  from  these  surround- 
ings." His  voice  was  genuine,  and  his  thin,  rather 
foolish  face  became  interesting  with  emotion  that  was 
real — for  her  beauty  had  its  effect  upon  him.  He  was 
glad,  and  tried  to  realise  it  more  acutely.  "You  were 
made  for  better  things — you  have  strayed  from  them; 
I  want  to  take  you  back,  to  see  your  feet  treading  grass 
under  a  blue  sky  to  the  sound  of  running  water 

"I  shall  go  mad  if  you  talk  your  trash  to  me,"  she 
broke  out.  "You  had  better  try  it  on  the  Berrymore. 
She  can  take  you  into  the  smart  lot,  and  they'll  buy 
your  books — I  wouldn't  be  found  dead  with  them — and 
she's  the  sort  who'll  go  and  hear  you  at  the  poetry  shop, 
while  a  tallow  candle  gutters  in  front  of  you.  .  .  .  There's 
Lord  Stockton  looking.  I'm  going  to  make  him  take 
me  home — I  don't  mind  if  I  dance  round  once  with  you. 
Your  step  is  all  right,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  too  beastly 
to  you." 

"But  you  are — cruel  to  me!"  Beastly  was  not  a 
word  he  used.  "Why  did  you  let  me  bring  you  if  you 
were  not  going  to  be  kind?  I  believe  you  only  did  it  to 
vex  Alliston — if  you  see  him  still." 

"Of  course  I  see  him  still,"  she  answered  quickly;  but 
he  knew  it  to  be  a  lie — a  flimsy  domino  of  a  lie,  "and 


Miss  Fingal  143 

nothing  vexes  him.  Who's  the  heiress  your  aunt  took 
you  to  see?"  she  asked,  when  she  had  finished  her 
supper  and  was  looking  restlessly  round  the  room  as  if 
seeking  some  one. 

"What  do  you  know  about  her?" 

"I  heard."  She  breathed  freely,  for  Dick  Alliston  was 
not  there,  she  had  assured  herself  of  that:  she  had 
not  expected  to  see  him,  but  she  entered  no  place  now 
without  wondering  whether  some  chance  might  not 
bring  him  there  too.  She  laughed  and  looked  up 
at  her  companion;  and  he,  fascinated  by  her  sudden 
change  of  mood,  forgot  his  desire  for  emotion  that  was 
genuine  and  played  moth  to  her  candle.  "I  always  hear 
things.  She  lives  in  Dick  Alliston's  old  cottage,  doesn't 
she?" 

"Yes,  but  he  does  not  know  Miss  Fingal." 

"Fingal?  Oh  yes."  In  a  moment  she  saw  the  whole 
connection — Miss  Fingal  and  Dick's  wife,  and  they 
knew  each  other,  of  course.  "Well,  your  heiress  was 
in  a  train  smash  to-day,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  she  is  not 
done  for " 

"Poor  little  thing!  I  liked  her;  she  looked  so 
lonely." 

"We're  all  lonely,  Bat,  in  different  ways;  but  we 
have  to  put  up  with  it,  so  that's  nothing.  There's 
Stockton  waiting.  He  wants  to  talk  to  me,  and  I  don't 
feel  like  dancing  any  more  to-night.  I'm  tired.  I  seem 
to  be  mixed  up  with  the  Alliston  lot  to-day,  for  he's  a 
cousin  or  something  of  hers.  I  wish  you  would  leave 
me  alone  now.  I'm  very  tired — and  tired  of  you.  I 
don't  want  you  any  more  to-night." 

"Let's  do  one  turn  together;  you  said  you  would." 
He  longed  for  the  sensation  of  holding  her  in  his 
arms. 

"I've  changed  my  mind."  She  beckoned  to  Lord 
Stockton.  "Will  you  take  me  home?"  she  asked  him. 
"My  chauffeur  was  crying  because  his  child  had  croup, 
so  I  sent  him  back  to  it;  and  I've  had  enough  of  Cyril 
Batson." 

"I'll  take  you  if  you  like."  He  looked  severely  at  her 
low-cut  dress,  and  at  the  diamonds  round  her  neck:  he 


144  Miss  Fingal 

knew  the  man  who  owed  for  them.  "But  you  must 
come  now.  I  don't  want  to  stay  here  any  longer."  He 
followed  her  to  the  cloak-room  door.  She  came  out  in 
a  coat  of  heavy  brocade  with  a  gold  thread  running 
through  it,  and  fur  close  round  the  throat  so  that  it 
framed  her  face.  It  made  her  look  picturesque,  and 
she  knew  it;  but  his  eyes  only  surveyed  her  severely 
again,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  admiration. 

She  hesitated  before  the  car,  piqued  by  his  manner. 
"Look  here,  are  you  sure  you  want  to  go?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes."  He  got  in  after  her  and  shut  the  door.  "I 
couldn't  have  stayed  in  that  place  another  minute,"  he 
said,  as  they  whirled  off.  "Why  do  you  go  there?" 

"It's  life." 

"It's  hell." 

"Same  thing  for  some  of  us  when  the  switch  is  turned 
on.  Why  did  you  go?" 

"To  see  if  I  could  persuade  women  like  you  to  stay 
away." 

"Are  you  going  to  talk  religion  to  me?" 

"No,  only  decency." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  an  appeal  in  her  eyes,  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Don't  worry  me,  Teddy. 
I'm  miserable  enough  to  stay  in  any  hell  except  the  one 
that's  ahead  of  me." 

He  was  suddenly  interested,  but  he  shook  her  hand 
off  his  arm,  firmly  though  not  unkindly.  "But  why  ?  You 
have  everything  your  own  way,  money  and '  applause, 
and  a  score  of  men  running  after  you;  most  of  them 
poor  young  fools — but  there  they  are." 

"Doesn't  matter  if  you  have  a  hundred  if  the  right  sort 
doesn't  play  up.  That's  generally  a  woman's  luck.  She 
can  get  any  but  the  right  one." 

He  looked  at  her  and  was  silent  a  minute,  then  his 
tone  grew  different.  "You  ought  to  have  married,"  he 
said;  "some  good  fellow  who  would  keep  you  in  order 
and  give  you  children." 

"I'm  fit  for  that  sort  of  thing,  ain't  I?" 

"Not  now,  but  you  were  once." 

"Oh,  I  say,  you  are  preaching — and  I  can't  bear  it. 


Miss  Fingal  145 

If  you  go  on  with  it  I  shall  open  the  door  and  jump 
out." 

He  touched  her  hand  then.  "I  don't  preach,"  he 
said,  "and  I  wish  you'd  come  and  have  tea  to-morrow 
at  my  rooms  in  Lincoln's  Inn." 

"Come  to  tea?"     She  stared  at  him  doubtfully. 

"The  woman  I  am  going  to  marry  is  coming.  I  think 
it  would  do  you  good  to  meet  her.  She  has  tenderness 
for  all  humanity." 

She  laughed  out  at  that.  "Can't  do  it,  Teddy,  can't 
do  it." 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  must  call  me  Lord  Stock- 
ton. I  dislike  the  other." 

"Do  you  think  she  wouldn't  like  it?  Don't  be  afraid, 
I  won't  let  it  slip  out  unawares  when  she's  there."  She 
laughed,  and  turned  her  face  towards  him.  He  saw  her 
prettiness,  the  innocent  expression,  the  suggestion  of 
unnecessary  get  up;  and  with  it  all  he  heard  the  note 
of  strain  in  her  voice — sweet  alluring  voice  that  the 
stalls  loved — as  if  she  were  doggedly  beating  off  threat- 
ened pain,  though  it  had  no  outward  effect  on  her. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  that,  nor  of  anything  you  can 
do  or  say,"  he  answered,  "but  it  grieves  me  when " 

"Oh,  I  know  all  the  rest,  so  stow  it!  Here  we  are." 
He  helped  her  out,  looked  up  at  the  high  houses,  and 
followed  her  into  the  hall.  "I  took  care  to  be  on  the 
level,"  she  explained.  "No  stairs  to  go  up,  or  lift-man 
to  look  at  you;  come  in,  and  we'll  have  a  talk." 

She  had  opened  her  front  door  while  she  spoke  with 
a  key  from  the  gold  bag  on  her  arm. 

"No !"  he  snapped. 

She  laughed  out  again  at  his  evident  misunderstand- 
ing. "I  thought  you  would  like  to — to  hear" — there 
was  a  little  catch  in  her  throat  that  arrested  him — "to 
hear  about  Mrs.  Alliston.  I  went  to  see  her  to-day." 

"You — you  did?    Where?"    He  was  astounded. 

"That's  it,  I  did.  She's  at  Leesbury;  so's  her  friend, 
Miss  Fingal — at  the  hotel,  but  she's  pretty  well  done 
for  in  a  railway  accident — Miss  Fingal,  I  mean.  Good- 
night." 

"But  tell  me  why  you  went " 


146  Miss  Fingal 

"Not  now.  I'm  too  tired  to  bother  any  more  with 
you — so  trot  along;  and  I  don't  want  to  go  to  your  tea- 
party  to-morrow."  She  entered  quickly,  and  left  him 
staring  at  the  closed  door. 

"Think  I  had  the  best  of  that,"  she  thought.  She 
turned  on  the  light  and  drank  a  glass  of  milk  Lydia 
had  put  ready  for  her, 


PART  II. 


AT  the  end  of  a  month  Miss  Fingal  was  still  tossing 
uneasily  on  her  pillows  at  the  White  Hart.  She  had 
broken  no  bones  in  the  railway  accident,  but  she  was 
seriously  hurt  about  the  head,  she  had  wrenched 
various  muscles,  and  was  suffering  from  shock.  For 
days  she  was  unconscious,  and  her  recovery  seemed 
unlikely ;  life  and  death  gambled  for  her  and  fever  rioted 
in  her  brain.  But  the  worst  was  over.  At  first  her 
ravings  had  been  of  places  she  had  never  seen,  of 
people  she  had  never  known — of  the  dead  who  had 
lived  in  Bedford  Square  before  uncle  John's  time — 
strange  men  and  women  came  and  looked  at  her;  the 
dark  man,  whose  portrait  hung  in  the  study  stalked  up 
to  her  bedside,  with  a  stern  face  and  threatening  eyes, 
and  frightened  her  so  much  that  she  fled  to  the  flat 
at  Battersea,  but  the  door  was  locked  and  she  rang  the 
bell  in  vain. 

"It's  so  cruel,"  she  cried  to  the  young  couple,  for  she 
could  hear  them  laughing.  "I  must  drown  if  you  won't 
let  me  in."  But  they  took  no  notice.  She  hurried 
down  the  stairs,  out  to  the  park  opposite — the  park  she 
had  never  entered — and  ran  towards  the  lake,  but  when 
she  came  to  it  rats  were  swimming  in  it,  thousands  and 
thousands  of  rats  .  .  .  she  went  to  the  cottage,  but  it 
was  locked  and  empty — round  the  garden  to  the  orchard, 
but  she  could  find  no  way  into  it.  She  tore  down  the 
barbed  wire  with  her  hands,  but  more  and  more  it  en- 
tangled itself  before  her,  till,  broken  and  bleeding,  she 

147 


148  Miss  Fingal 

found  herself  in  Bedford  Square.  .  .  .  The  tall  white 
vases  at  the  end  of  the  drawing-room  slowly  moved — 
she  saw  that  they  were  dead  women  swathed  in  their 
shrouds — they  came  towards  her,  holding  out  their 
ghostly  hands;  she  cowered  and  moaned  before  them, 
too  much  affrighted  to  resist,  and,  closing  her  eyes  so 
as  not  to  see  them,  felt  as  if,  in  a  merciful  cloud  that 
fell  about  her,  she  had  met  with  sleep:  it  folded  her  in, 
and  for  a  time  the  fever  in  her  brain  had  exhausted 
itself.  .  .  .  But  it  was  not  over,  though  her  imagining 
changed.  Once  it  was  almost  more  than  her  strength 
could  bear.  She  was  in  a  carriage,  on  a  long  straight 
road  that  had  tall  poplar-trees  on  either  side,  driving  a 
pair  of  horses,  lashing  to  make  them  go  faster — faster 
— for  behind  her  a  train  was  coming,  on  and  on — she 
crouched  down  behind  the  splash-board,  still  holding  the 
reins,  crying,  "It  is  death — it  is  death!"  But  the  train 
went  by,  not  touching  her.  The  carriage  stopped,  and 
suddenly  there  were  houses  piled  up;  till  they  resembled 
a  mountain,  with  an  old  abbey  that  crowned  them ;  and  at 
their  feet  was  the  sea.  The  tide  was  coming  in — coming 
towards  her  over  green  fields — nearer  and  nearer — higher 
and  higher, — she  was  going  to  drown — to  drown — the 
waves  were  closing  round  her — over  her — she  was  chok- 
ing— she  could  not  breathe — a  tight  band  clutched  her 
head,  a  weight  was  on  her  chest  holding  her  down,  her 
limbs  were  rigid;  a  stone  was  at  her  lips,  an  icy  hand 
held  it  there;  with  a  struggle  she  moved  it  away,  and 
suddenly  rising  from  the  pillow  she  held  out  her  arms  and 
crying,  "Yes,  the  children — the  children!"  fell  back  on 
the  pillow  .  .  .  The  hand  found  her  again;  it  seemed  to 
caress  her.  "Oh,  I  cannot  go — I  am  afraid !"  she  said, 
entreating  .  .  .  there  was  a  pause;  her  voice  became 
different.  "If  they  love  me — "  she  said  wearily.  .  .  .  She 
grew  calmer  for  a  little  while,  till  a  shivering,  shuddering 
cold  was  upon  her,  an  aching  crippling  tiredness.  A 
cruel  wind  carried  her  out  in  the  gathering  black- 
ness towards  another  road,  a  road  that  dizzily  she 
seemed  to  know;  she  wanted  to  stay  and  identify  it — 
there  were  trees  overhead,  and  a  green  bank  by  the 
wayside.  She  saw  it  through  the  darkness,  and  longed 


Miss  Fingal  149 

to  rest ;  she  heard  voices,  and  was  afraid ;  she  felt  cold — 
and  strange  and  tried  to  hide,  but  fear  and  a  sense  of 
seeking  urged  her  on  again  .  .  .  she  seemed  to  remember 
herself,  and  the  hotel,  and  in  an  agony  of  despair  cried 
out  her  own  name — a  strange  thing  to  do,  the  nurse 
said;  but  afterwards  she  was  quieted,  as  if  worn  out 
with  long  suffering  and  effort.  .  .  . 

At  last  a  morning  came  when  gradually  a  sense  of 
surroundings  dawned  on  her,  though  she  was  afraid  to 
open  her  eyes  or  to  make  a  sign.  She  knew  that  a 
strong  arm  held  her  and  a  cup  was  put  to  the  lips  she 
could  hardly  move,  but  the  worn  life  took  in  strength 
to  go  on.  .  .  . 

The  world  that  had  once  taken  little  count  of  Miss 
Fingal  did  not  leave  her  out  of  its  reckoning  while  she 
was  at  her  worst.  Stimson  and  Mrs.  Turner  presented 
themselves  twice,  only  to  be  told  that  it  was  impossible 
for  either  of  them  to  see  her ;  but  they  had  lived  too  long 
with  "the  family"  not  to  be  full  of  anxiety.  Upon 
them,  too,  fell  much  of  the  responsibility  of  directing 
the  workmen  and  choosing  the  wall-paper  for  the  stair- 
case. The  result  was  a  gay  chintz-like  pattern  of 
excellent  design  that  seemed  to  carry  an  echo  of  happi- 
ness in  its  colours.  This  was  through  Stimson,  for 
on  his  third  visit  the  nurse  allowed  him  to  stand  by 
the  bedside  for  a  minute  or  two  while  the  patient  was 
uneasily  sleeping.  Her  face  looked  young,  and  a  smile 
broke  over  it:  she  awoke  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
eyes  that  were  full  of  a  wild  light,  but  had  no  recog- 
nition in  them.  "Don't  you  know  me,  miss?"  he 
asked.  "We  have  all  of  us  been  dreadfully  upset  about 
you.  We  hope  you  will  soon  be  quite  well  and  come 
home  again,"  he  said  tremulously,  "for  we  don't  like 
to  think  of  you  here — though  it's  very  comfortable,  I 
am  sure,"  he  added,  to  conciliate  the  nurse. 

She  comprehended  nothing;  but  he  remembered, 
while  he  stood  by  her,  how  pleased  she  had  been 
with  the  cottage.  He  had  heard  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Alliston  chose  the  staircase  paper  there,  and  he  went 
away  determined  to  order  one  like  it.  "It'll  make  the 
whole  place  cheerful,"  he  told  Mrs.  Turner.  "In  fact, 


150  Miss  Fingal 

come  to  think  of  it,  we  had  better  make  the  alterations 
everywhere  as  much  like  the  cottage  as  we  can — so 
far  as  they  are  left  to  us,  that  is,  for  we  know  she 
liked  that,  and  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Bendish  will  approve 
when  we  tell  her." 

For  Mrs.  Bendish,  at  her  husband's  suggestion,  had 
helped  to  arrange  where  electric  plugs  and  switches 
should  be  put,  and  Stimson  had  seen  her  shudder  once 
or  twice  as  she  entered  the  gloomy,  slightly  musty 
rooms:  there  were  some  above  the  best  bedroom  floor, 
unuced  and  seldom  opened. 

"The  whole  place  wants  light  and  air,"  she  told 
Bertha  Gilston,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  in- 
timacy. "It  is  really  wicked  to  see  that  excellent  house 
visibly  brooding  over  its  past,  and  reaching  towards 
rot  and  mildew  in  the  future.  I  think  we'll  ask  my 
husband  if  we  can't  make  a  bold  plunge  and  take  it 
upon  ourselves  to  have  it  all  done  up.  I  expect  Miss 
Fingal  will  cheerfully  pay  the  bills." 

"As  meekly  as  any  lamb,"  Bertha  answered. 

They  went  on  to  Portland  Place  and  discussed  it  with 
Lady  Gilston,  who  had  been  interested  in  the  heiress 
since  she  had  heard  of  the  visits  to  Highbrook  Farm, 
and  pleased  with  her  own  far-seeingness  in  bringing 
them  about. 

"She  seemed  such  a  lonely  little  soul,"  Mrs.  Bendish 
explained;  "there  was  something  almost  uncanny  about 
her,  as  if  she  had  been  cast  up  from  a  dead  sea  and  not 
known  how  to  cope  with  life.  And  that  house  in 
Bedford  Square  has  not  grown  old  beautifully — inside, 
I  mean — as  the  others  have;  for  I  know  people  in  three 
or  four  of  them:  the  Square  has  become  fashionable  of 
late  years,  and  beautiful  women,  and  people  who  count, 
have  gone  to  live  there.  But  John  Fingal  was  a  cold 
man;  I  heard  once  that  his  father  was  too — and 
his  mother  had  died  early,  and  somehow  humanity 
slipped  away  from  him  and  his  surroundings.  I  wanted 
his  niece  to  alter  things  in  that  bleak  drawing-room, 
but  she  shook  her  head  and  just  went  on  sitting  in  it  as 
if  waiting  till  it  was  time  for  the  ghosts,  who  occasion- 
ally looked  in,  to  take  her  on  with  them." 


Miss  Fingal  151 

A  few  days  later,  when  Lady  Gilston  went  to  Lees- 
bury,  she  stopped  at  the  White  Hart  to  inquire,  and 
left  a  basket  of  grapes  she  had  brought  up  from  Waver- 
combe.  "We  must  do  what  we  can  for  her  when 
she  comes  to  Briarpatch,"  she  told  Sir  James. 

There  were  other  callers — Lord  Stockton  was  among 
them,  for  he  gathered  from  the  newspapers  the  details 
of  the  accident  of  which  Cherry  Ripe  had  told  him ;  and 
from  the  Gilstons  he  heard  of  Miss  Fingal's  visits  to 
Highbrook  Farm — there  was  a  day  when  he  went  there 
too,  a  day  when  a  chapter  in  his  life  ended.  And 
Bertha  Gilston  and  Jimmy  came  and  stayed  two  nights 
at  the  hotel;  and  the  hour  before  they  left,  Bertha 
stood  by  her  and  kissed  the  hand  outstretched  on  the 
coverlet.  But  Miss  Fingal  knew  nothing. 

Recovery  came  slowly  and  surely.  .  .  .  They  moved 
her  nearer  to  the  window;  but  at  first  she  took  little 
account  of  it.  ... 

At  last  a  morning  came  when  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  looked  round  the  room  unbelievingly,  as  if  she 
were  returning  from  an  unknown  country  and  trying 
to  recognise  once  familiar  things.  Gradually  some  frag- 
ments of  the  past  came  back,  but  she  could  not  sort 
realities  from  dreams. 

"Have  I  been  very  ill?"  she  asked  the  nurse,  "and 
in  bed  for  a  long  time?" 

"You  have  been  very  ill;  but  you  are  through  the 
worst — you  must  rest  and  not  try  to  talk." 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  slept  again — a  long  blessed 
sleep  that  brought  her  a  sense  of  returning  life,  though 
it  was  difficult  to  realise  all  that  had  happened  before 
the  days  of  blankness;  and  through  her  brain  visions 
that  were  like  memories  chased  each  other,  but  she 
was  afraid  to  think  much — it  brought  headache  and  a 
strange  confusion  and  nervousness. 

The  spring  had  come — a  glad  spring;  the  common  was 
yellow  with  gorse  and  broom,  the  patches  of  grass  were 
very  green,  there  was  blue  in  the  sky  and  sunshine  on 
the  land,  though  it  was  not  very  warm  yet,  and  the  little 
soft  breezes  that  came  stealing  in  at  the  windows  were 
capacious.  Across  the  common  she  could  see  two  or 


152  Miss  Fingal 

three  trees  dimly  white  with  blossom;  they  were  near 
the  wood  on  the  left;  she  wondered  how  they  had  come 
there,  but  of  course  they  were  in  the  gardens  of  houses 
farther  back.  She  thought  of  the  golf  links  beyond  the 
unfinished  villas  on  the  right.  .  .  . 

"I  should  like  to  get  up  and  walk  about,"  she  told 
the  nurse  when  she  had  reached  the  easy-chair  stage. 

"You  will  very  soon;  you  are  getting  well." 

"I  wonder  if  the  doctor  would  let  me  have  the  fly  out 
and  drive  somewhere." 

"Yes — soon;  it  would  do  you  good." 

"I  want  to  go  to  Highbrook  Farm — I  think  it  is  called 
Highbrook  Farm?" 

But  the  nurse  said  nothing. 

He  came  a  little  later,  and  Miss  Fingal,  piecing  her 
memories  together,  thought  of  Linda;  it  was  surprising 
that  she  had  not  remembered  her  before. 

"I  am  so  much  better,"  she  told  him;  "when  may  I 
go  and  see  Mrs.  Alliston?" 

He  hesitated.  "I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  you 
cannot  go  and  see  her." 

"Why  not?  The  trees  that  arch  overhead  on  the  way 
there  are  coming  out.  I  never  thought  so  much  about 
the  spring  as  I  have  done  lying  here.  And  I  want  to 
see  the  old  women  in  the  cottages  on  the  way  to  the 
farm.  May  I  go  to-day?  It  is  quite  warm  enough." 

"It  is  too  soon,"  he  answered  firmly. 

"I  remember  now,"  she  said  with  a  little  laugh,  "that 
I  was  going  to  buy  a  plum-cake  the  day  I  was  in  London 
— we  might  telegraph  for  it  if  I  may  go  to-morrow?  I 
don't  think  the  children  will  be  shy  with  me  now,  for  I 
know  better  what  to  say  to  them." 

She  made  no  sign  of  eagerness  to  see  Linda,  though 
she  was  conscious  of  her  all  the  time;  but  the  children 
were  very  vivid  to  her. 

"Don't  let  it  trouble  you  too  much,"  Dr.  Wynne 
told  her  gently  a  day  or  two  later;  "it  is  all  over — Mrs. 
Alliston  is  dead." 

She  was  wonder-struck  rather  than  distressed;  but 
for  a  moment  or  two  she  said  nothing,  and  then — "It's 
very  strange,  in  some  dreamlike  way  I  think  I  knew. 


Miss  Fingal  153 

Perhaps  I  heard  you  speak  of  it  when  I  was  ill  and  had 
forgotten.  Did  she  want  me,  or  know  about  the  train 
accident  ?" 

"Yes.  I  went  to  her  late  that  afternoon.  She  tried 
to  send  you  a  message  at  the  last,  but  she  couldn't." 

"When  did  she  die?" 

"She  died  one  night  when  you  were  very  ill,"  the 
nurse  answered. 

"Was  any  one  with  her?" 

"Her  mother  arrived  just  in  time;  the  others  were 
too  late." 

"Too  late!"  she  wondered  if  Dick  Alliston  knew,  and 
who  had  told  him.  "I  wish  Bertha  Gilston  had  been  in 
England." 

"She  and  her  brother  hurried  back  from  Paris.  They 
were  here — they  stayed  a  night  at  this  hotel,"  the  nurse 
answered.  "Miss  Gilston  saw  you  for  a  moment." 

"Did  they  go  abroad  again?" 

"No;  they  are  in  London,  I  believe.  She  asked  me 
to  tell  you  that  she  would  come  when  you  were  better, 
and  Mr.  Gilston  said  he  would  wait  till  you  were  at 
home  again." 

"Dear  old  Jimmy!"  A  strange  remark  for  Miss 
Fingal,  but  it  seemed  to  come  naturally.  "Where  are 
the  children?" 

"With  their  grandmother.  She  took  them  back  with 
her  to  Mentone;  she  is  staying  at  the  Winter  Palace 
Hotel." 

"Is  Janet  with  them?" 

"The  nurse?  Oh  yes,  she  is  evidently  very  fond  of 
them,"  the  doctor  answered. 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  doctor  and  nurse  left  her 
alone.  Linda's  death  did  not  grieve  her,  the  obsession  for 
her  had  gone:  she  felt  like  a  calm  spectator  or  the  recipi- 
ent of  expected  tidings.  She  imagined  the  arrival  of  Lady 
Hester,  the  waiting  and  stillness  and  soft  voices  of  those 
about  the  house,  the  room  in  which  Linda  had  died — it 
must  have  been  the  one  beyond  the  sitting-room  from 
which  she  had  entered  that  first  day  of  all.  .  .  .  Had 
the  children  been  with  her?  and  had  she  looked  out  of 
the  open  window  at  the  high  trees  standing  together 


154  Miss  Fingal 

a  little  way  off — it  looked  out  towards  the  wood — but 
no,  the  nurse  said  she  had  died  at  night,  the  darkness 
had  stolen  in  seeking  her;  had  she  followed  it?  And  the 
message  she  had  tried  to  send?  Would  she  ever  be  able 
to  bring  it,  to  whisper  it  in  some  half-dream,  or  was  it 
wandering  in  space?  She  tried  not  to  think:  it  confused 
her  and  brought  back  the  pains  in  her  head;  while  all 
manner  of  strange  ideas  forced  themselves  upon  her.  .  .  . 
She  raised  herself  and  looked  out  at  the  trees  beyond 
the  common,  they  belonged  to  the  same  world  as  those 
at  the  farm;  she  felt  as  if  some  wise  subconsciousness 
was  theirs :  perhaps  they  spoke  to  each  other  on  the 
winds  and  whispered  messages  into  the  little  breezes 
that  wandered  by.  The  world  was  not  made  only  for 
human  beings;  there  were  many  forms  of  life,  and  all 
things  had  a  share;  sometimes  it  was  paralysed  or  very 
still,  or  deaf,  or  blind,  or  dumb,  and  only  now  and  then 
able  to  make  signs;  but  those  who  could  hear  and  see 
must  know  strange  and  secret  things  with  which  the 
hurrying  crowds  had  no  concern.  Her  senses  were 
alive,  awake  to  so  much  more  than  before  she  was  ill, 
she  told  herself;  there  seemed  to  be  communication  even 
in  the  air:  it  was  charged — softly,  kindly,  caressingly 
charged;  and  sometimes  she  felt  as  if  Linda — oh!  but 
such  strange  thoughts  and  feelings  came  into  her  brain 
and  stirred  her  heart,  they  frightened  her.  .  .  . 

She  asked  the  doctor  again  a  few  days  later,  "When 
will  you  let  me  go  home?" 

"Have  you  a  motor-car?" 

"No."  " 

"Why  don't  you  get  one?  A  train  journey  is  not 
to  be  thought  of  for  you  yet  awhile.  My  brother  always 
prescribes  a  car  when  his  patients  are  recovering — if 
they  can  afford  it,  of  course." 

"Your  brother?" 

"My  brother  is  Albery  Wynne,  the  throat  specialist." 

"Oh  yes,  I  think  I  have  heard  of  him."  She  seemed 
a  little  confused. 

"A  friend — or  rather  a  patient  of  his — took  up  a  mes- 
sage to  your  house  after  your  accident;  she  was  at 
Leesbury,  and  anxious  to  be  of  some  use." 


Miss  Fingal  155 

"It  was  very  kind  of  her,"  Miss  Fingal  answered  with 
the  old  formula.  "Who  was  she?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment — "Miss  Cissie  Repton. 
You  have  probably  heard  of  her?" 

"No — perhaps,"  she  was  confused  again  with  the 
struggle  to  remember.  "I  may  have  forgotten,"  she 
explained.  "I  think  Bertha  Gilston  knows  her." 

"Perhaps.  Well,  think  about  getting  a  car.  It  must  be 
a  smooth  one  with  good  springs  and  cushions;  and  no 
very  long  journeys  yet.  It  is  time  that  the  nurse  went, 
but  you  ought  to  have  a  good  maid  to  look  after  you," 
he  told  her;  for  he  was  a  practical  man,  and  had  dis- 
covered that  he  was  dealing  with  a  young  woman  to 
whom  money  was  no  object. 


II. 


AT  last  she  was  able  to  go  for  little  walks  on  the 
common,  in  and  out  between  the  patches  of  gorse 
and  broom  that  had  become  a  golden  mass  during 
the  last  sunny  week  or  two,  sensible  of  the  soft  green- 
ness beneath  her  feet,  and  delighted  with  the  tall 
white  growth — cow  parsley  she  heard  it  was  called — 
that  was  almost  new  to  her,  for  she  was  unused  to  the 
wild  beauty  of  the  countryside  in  spring. 

One  morning  when  she  returned,  Mr.  Bendish  was 
waiting  to  see  her.  "Getting  well  evidently,"  he  said. 
"But  you  will  have  to  be  careful  for  a  long  time.  A 
head  resents  any  liberties  taken  with  it." 

He  had  always  found  talk  with  her  difficult,  but  she 
interested  him  as  a  sort  of  human  puzzle  that  Time 
might  solve.  A  young  woman  who  accepted  a  fortune 
with  as  little  emotion  as  she  had  done,  and  indulged  in 
no  feminine  vanities  with  it,  was  something  of  a  curiosity. 
"What  do  you  think  of  doing  next?" 

She  told  him  of  the  doctor's  suggestion  concerning 
a  car;  she  had  written  to  Bertha  Gilston  about  a  maid. 

"Excellent,"  he  exclaimed;  "if  you  will  trust  me  to 
choose  one,  I  will  see  to  it  at  once  and  send  it  down 
here. 

"Oh,  do;  but  here?" 

"Why  not?  Then  you  can  go  away  in  it;  I  should 
thinK  you  will  be  glad  to  escape  the  train  after  your 
recent  experience?  Where  will  you  go?  To  Waver- 
combe,  or  to  the  sea  for  a  bit?" 

"To  Bedford  Square,  first." 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  not  quite  ready  for  you  yet,  and  you 
will  hardly  know  it  again  when  it  is.  You  ordered  some 

156 


Miss  Fingal  157 

improvements  before  you  came  here,  and  since  you  were 
too  ill  to  look  after  the  workmen  yourself,  my  wife  and 
Bertha  Gilston,  who  is  a  very  clever  young  woman, 
thought  they  had  better  take  it  upon  themselves  to  do 
it  for  you.  The  result  is,  they  have  run  you  up  a  nice 
bill  with  the  decorator,  but  it  looks  so  much  better  that 
I  hope  you  will  forgive  them." 

"Forgive  them,"  she  exclaimed  with  infinite  relief, 
"I  am  so  grateful,  let  them  do  anything  they  like,  it  is 
too  kind  and  wonderful  of  them  to  look  after  it."  They 
had  probably  done,  she  thought,  what  she  would  have 
hesitated  to  do  herself  with  the  tradition  of  uncle  John 
holding  her  back,  though  she  was  no  longer  governed  by 
it  as  she  had  been  only  a  little  while  ago.  Her  illness 
had  seemed  to  thrust  him  far  back  in  her  memory:  the 
spring  was  sweeping  out  the  dark  corners  in  her  mind, 
as  perhaps  the  workmen  were  sweeping  them  out  in  the 
house  he  had  left  her. 

"They  talk  of  coming  to  have  a  look  at  you  one  after- 
noon this  week — my  wife  and  Bertha  I  mean — if  you 
would  like  a  visit  from  them?" 

"I  should  like  it  very  much — "  she  wanted  to  see 
Bertha ;  and  Mrs.  Bendish  was  kind.  "Could  some  of 
the  dreadful  things  be  sent  away  now  that  the  house 
has  been  made  different?"  she  asked. 

"Sent  away — what  things?" 

"First  of  all,  the  two  tall  alabaster  vases  in  the 
drawing-room." 

He  was  almost  angry.  "Your  uncle  valued  them, 
and  they  are  very  beautiful." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  they  are  beautiful,  but  they  frighten 
me.  If  you  like  them,  do  have  them,  Mr.  Bendish.  Let 
me  give  them  to  you.  Take  them  away  before  I  come 
back — and  never  let  me  see  them  again." 

"You  mean  that  you  don't  want  them?"  He  could 
hardly  believe  her. 

"Yes,  I  mean  that  I  don't  want  them.  And  that 
black  portrait  in  the  study,  I  should  like  it  to  go  too;  I 
couldn't  live  with  it  again — he  looks  so  wicked — and  all 
those  dead  law-books  with  the  decayed  bindings  in  the 
study,  and  the  great  yellow  map  against  them." 


158  Miss  Fingal 

"You  are  a  very  extraordinary  young  woman."  Mr. 
Bendish  knitted  his  eyebrows  together  and  looked  at 
her  keenly.  "Is  there  anything  else  you  want  to  get 
rid  of?" 

She  laughed  a  little  and  felt  as  if  she  were  unfastening 
closed  windows  to  let  in  light  and  air.  "Yes,  the 
Brussels  carpets.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  the  foot- 
prints— the  cold  dead  feet  that  have  gone  over  them." 

"As  far  as  I  remember,  they  are  in  excellent 
condition." 

"Perhaps,  but  they  are  hard  and  faded,  and  would 
never  wear  out.  Stimson  came  to  see  me  yesterday. 
I  told  him  his  sister  might  have  them  all  if  she  could 
take  them  away  at  once.  She  has  a  boarding-house  at 
Bayswater." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  put  beneath  your  own 
feet?" 

"Parquet  floors,  and  Persian  rugs — and — that  sort  of 
thing,  when  I  am  strong  enough  to  go  and  buy  them. 
I  have  been  thinking  these  last  few  days,  since  I  felt 
better,  that  perhaps  I  would  sell  the  house  and  go  some- 
where else  to  live." 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  do  that,"  he  answered, 
"your  uncle  was  very  much  attached  to  it.  He  left  you 
his  money — trusted  you  with  it  to  carry  on  the  tradition 
of  the  family." 

"But  I  never  knew  the  family,  and  I  don't  know 
whether  the  traditions  are  good  or  bad  and  ought  to 
be  carried  on." 

"Well,  no" — he  was  a  little  puzzled. 

"If  he  had  had  other  relations  he  might  have  left  his 
money  to  them." 

"That's  true;  but  hasn't  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that 
the  house  is — is — well  built  and  dignified  and — that  it  is 
different  from  the  houses  in  South  Kensington,  for 
instance  ?" 

"I  know — "  There  came  into  her  mind  a  picture  of 
the  houses  in  Cheyne  Walk,  flat-faced,  tall  and  silent- 
looking,  with  many  windows  and  sedate  front  doors,  and 
little  square  old-world  fore-courts.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  rested 
on  the  chair  where  Linda  had  sat,  that  day  when  she 


Miss  Fingal  159 

dragged  herself  in,  and  the  sunlight  rested  on  the  gold 
threads  of  her  hair.  "Oh,  I  will,  I  will,"  she  cried 
silently  to  her  own  heart,  as  if  she  were  answering  a 
petition. 

"Well?"  Mr.  Bendish  was  surprised  at  her  abrupt 
silence. 

She  forced  herself  to  go  back  and  take  up  the  thread 
of  their  talk.  "I  was  thinking  of  the  houses  in  Cheyne 
Walk,"  she  answered,  "the  old  ones,  I  mean.  I  used  to 
feel  as  though  they  were  my  friends.  They  are  as  old — 
older  perhaps  than  the  cottages  on  the  way  to  Highbrook 
Farm,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  them " 

"That  is  very  singular,"  he  interrupted;  the  reason 
I  came  here  to-day — besides  wishing  to  see  you — was  to 
give  the  old  women  who  live  in  them  five  pounds — ten 
shillings  each,  there  are  ten  of  them,  as  a  farewell  gift 
from  Mrs.  Alliston.  It  was  all  she  could  manage.  She 
told  Bertha  Gilston  once  that,  if  ever  she  were  rich,  she 
meant  to  have  their  places  done  up." 

"I  am  going  to  do  it,"  Miss  Fingal  exclaimed,  as 
if  she  had  remembered. 

"You!    Why  should  you  do  it?" 

"I  want  to.  I  asked  the  doctor  about  them  the  other 
day — the  roofs  are  bad,  the  walls  need  mending,  the 
floors,  the  fireplaces,  everything;  I  want  them  put  in 
thorough  order.  And  all  the  gardens  must  be  done  up 
too,  and  planted.  One  woman  could  have  chickens, 
another  a  pig  or  rabbits,  or  fruit-trees — or  lavender 
bushes,  perhaps;  each  one  of  them  something  indi- 
vidual, then  she  would  feel  that  her  life  was  her  own: 
I  have  been  thinking  it  all  out  lately.  While  I  walked 
on  the  common  this  morning  I  felt  as  if  something  was 
going  to  happen  about  it;  and  you  have  come." 

"But,  my  dear  young  lady,  why  should  you  do  it? 
You  have  no  interests  here."  Her  proposal  and  the 
excitement  with  which  she  urged  it  astounded  him. 

"I  have!  Linda  Alliston  came  into  my  life  here:  it 
shall  be  my  gift  to  her — but  I  want  to  do  it  for  those 
poor  things  too.  I  used  to  see  them  hobbling  to  their 
gates  or  standing  by  their  doors  when  I  went  by.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  first  day — they  were  shading  their  eyes 


160  Miss  Fingal 

with  their  thin  hands,  looking  very  old  and  shaking  in 
the  winter  sunshine." 

"But  to  do  all  you  say  would  cost  a  great  deal  of 
money,  some  hundreds — they  want  almost  rebuilding." 

"I  don't  care  if  it  costs  some  thousands,"  she  an- 
swered, "I  want  to  do  it — and  to  give  them  easy-chairs 
and  other  things,  when  the  cottages  are  ready,  so  that 
they  may  be  comfortable." 

"You  will  have  many  expenses  of  your  own,  re- 
member, the  changes  in  Bedford  Square,  and  the  car." 

"I  will  do  without  them  all — if  it  is  too  much,  but 
the  cottages  must  be  done.  You  said  I  had — I  forget 
how  much  a  year — but  some  thousands,  that  you  and 
Sir  James  had  invested  it  and  made  uncle  John's  fortune 
bigger — and  I  have  spent  nothing  on  all  that  most 
rich  people  like — jewels  and  frocks,  and  giving  parties. 
I  don't  care  for  them,  but  I  want  to  do  this — I  must  do 
it.  Dr.  Wynne  lives  here  and  he  would  see  to  it. 
Won't  you  help  and  advise  him — think  of  making  all 
those  lives  happy!" 

"You  are  a  very  kind  and  generous  woman,"  he  said. 
"It's  a  charming  idea,  and  you  have  a  right  to  do  what 
you  please  with  your  money."  He  shook  both  her  hands 
at  once. 

And  he  thought  of  her  all  the  way  back  to  London. 
"You  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather,"  he 
told  his  wife.  "She  suddenly  became  quite  eloquent. 
I  had  no  idea  it  was  in  her.  That  accident  has  done  her 
good.  She  even  looks  different,  much  younger,  she 
might  be  six-and-twenty.  She  seems  bewildered — con- 
fused in  manner  and  memories,  talks  of  the  houses  in 
Cheyne  Walk  as  being  her  friends,  and  about  giving  the 
Leesbury  old  women  pigs  all  in  the  same  breath;  but 
she  is  more  intelligent  than  she  was  before — and  more 
human." 

"She  was  human  enough  before;  but  she  has  got  at 
herself,  I  expect." 

"I  wish  you  and  Bertha  would  run  down  to  see 
her." 

"We'll  go  to-morrow,"  his  wife  answered. 

Miss    Fingal    heard    the    hoot    of    a    car    and    knew 


Miss  Fingal  161 

they  had  come:  she  went  to  the  window  and  waved  her 
hand. 

"It's  quite  true;  she  does  look  different — and 
younger,"  Mrs.  Bendish  remarked  to  Bertha.  And  they 
too  noticed  the  confused  expression  on  her  face,  the 
struggle  she  had  sometimes  even  to  be  coherent. 

"My  dear,"  Bertha  said  when  Aline  made  excuses  for 
herself,  "I  quite  understand;  nothing  is  more  difficult  to 
get  over  than  a  blow  on  the  head,  it  interferes  with  all 
one's  brain  arrangements." 

"There's  something  I  ought  to  do,  it's  waiting  for  me, 
crying  out  to  me,"  she  answered,  "and  I  don't  know — 
I  can't  remember  what  it  is.  Linda  tried  to  send  me  a 
message — but  I  never  had  it." 

"You  will  get  it  somehow,  probably  when  you  least 
expect  it.  Don't  worry  yourself,"  Bertha  said  with  her 
comforting  smile. 

"Perhaps  it  was  about  the  almshouses,  my  husband 
is  quite  carried  away  by  your  generosity,"  Mrs.  Bendish 
told  her.  "It  is  too  kind  and  dear  of  you." 

"Why?  She  would  have  done  it  if  she  could:  it  will 
make  them  so  happy — and  it  is  such  an  easy  deed — it 
would  surely  be  wicked  and  unkind  not  to  do  it." 
There  were  some  things  that  Aline  did  not  understand. 
She  had  money:  she  could  give  comfort  and  happiness 
to  a  group  of  poverty-stricken  women  and  without  any 
loss  or  inconvenience  to  herself.  Where  did  the  virtue 
come  in? 

Bertha  pulled  another  cigarette  from  the  jingling 
collection  of  oddments  at  her  side  and  struck  a  match. 
"I  think  you  were  made  to  a  beautiful  pattern,"  she 
laughed.  "Jimmy  said  that  last  night.  He  would  have 
come  with  us  to-day  but  we  didn't  want  him;  and  he 
hasn't  quite  got  over  his  last  visit  here — when  you  were 
ill,  I  mean.  He  was  awfully  fond  of  Linda — though  he 
never  allows  his  fondness  for  any  one  to  be  a  worry. 
And  now,  my  dear,  I'll  tell  you  about  the  maid  I  have 
found  for  you.  She  is  a  paragon — "  Bertha's  finds 
generally  began  as  paragons  and  occasionally  ended  as 
tragedies. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with  her,  I  never  had 


1 62  Miss  Fingal 

one  before,"  Aline  said  with  a  little  dismay,  when  the 
paragon  had  been  described. 

"One  gets  used  to  everything,  good  or  ill — time  takes 
it  in  hand — so  be  philosophical." 

Then  Mrs.  Bendish  explained  what  they  had  been 
doing  at  the  house.  "We  are  hoping  you  won't  make 
us  pay  the  bills " 

"Indeed,  I  won't." 

"Some  of  that  old  furniture  is  very  valuable " 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  value  alone  doesn't  matter.  Do 
send  away  the  bits  that  looked  wicked  and  decayed — not 
those  that  have  grown  old  beautifully  like  one  or  two  in 
Linda's  sitting-room  at  the  farm,  or  at  Briarpatch — not 
the  satinwood  piano,  if  you  don't  mind,  for  I  feel  as  if 
gentle  old  ladies — who  perhaps  were  lonely  too — played 
on  it  when  they  were  young.  It's  the  things  that  seem 
to  have  belonged  to  people  who  were  hard  and  cold — 
and  are  dead.  I  don't  want  to  feel  that  they  have  left 
any  sort  of  life  behind  that  I  must  go  on  living." 

"The  place  looks  so  different  now  that  it  is  fresh 
painted  and  electric  lighted  and  silk  shaded,  you  won't 
feel  it  ghostly  any  more,"  Mrs.  Bendish  said,  for  she  quite 
understood  what  the  poor  little  heiress  had  suffered.  "You 
oughtn't  to  live  there  alone,  perhaps  the  future " 

"Oh,  don't — "  Miss  Fingal  put  her  hands  before  her 
eyes  for  a  moment.  "I  can't  think  yet  of  the  future,  I 
feel  as  if  by  that  blow  in  the  train,  many  doors  in  my 
brain  had  been  broken  open;  but  I  am  so  confused — 
waiting  for  something  I  cannot  get  to  yet,  I  don't  know 
what  it  is;  perhaps  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  face  it." 
She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  she  asked, 
"Have  you  seen  Dick  Alliston  since ?" 

Bertha  shook  her  head.  "No,  and  I  have  made  no 
sign  to  him.  But  I  know  that  one  day  he'll  come  walk- 
ing up  to  my  flat,  and  I  shall  forgive  him  everything  he 
did  to  her." 

"Tell  me  about  Lady  Hester." 

"She  was  sweet  and  sugary  and  selfish  as  usual,  and 
everybody  was  very  much  relieved  when  she  took  herself 
and  the  children  back  to  Mentone." 

"Will  she  be  kind  to  them?" 


Miss  Fingal  163 

"Oh  yes,  Janet  will  see  to  it  if  she  isn't  and  write  to 
my  father.  Lady  H.  won't  risk  that,  because  it  would 
stop  the  supplies  she  probably  gets  from  him  still.  Be- 
sides she  is  always  kind  while  it  is  easy,  and  will  be  to 
them  till  she  gets  bored  or  finds  that  they  interfere  with 
her  plans,  then  she'll  dump  them  on  somebody  else." 

"She  can't  stay  at  Mentone  much  longer,  it  will  be  too 
warm,"  Mrs.  Bendish  said. 

"When  will  she  bring  them  to  England?" 

Bertha  gave  a  shrug  for  answer.  "By  the  way,"  she 
went  on,  "she  wrote  the  other  day  and  asked  me  to 
collect  anything  left  at  the  Farm.  I  didn't  want  to  go 
there  again,  so  I  sent  a  post-card  last  night  and  told  the 
woman  I  should  be  here  this  afternoon." 

"Nothing  has  come;  at  least  I  think  not — I'll  ring 
and  ask." 

The  waiter  brought  in  a  little  roll  of  music. 

"It  only  came  half  an  hour  ago,"  he  explained;  "they 
found  it  behind  the  piano  when  the  men  went  to  take  it 
away.  There  is  nothing  else." 

It  was  the  Chopin  polonaise  that  had  been  on  the 
stand  when  Miss  Fingal  paid  her  first  visit. 

"I  wish  I  might  have  it,"  she  said. 

"Pinch  it!"     Bertha  pulled  out  another  cigarette. 

"Pinch  it?" 

"Slang,  you  innocent,  for  stealing — no  one  wants  it. 
I  shall  say  I  gave  it  you." 


III. 


Miss  FINGAL  went  back  to  London  in  her  own  car, 
with  her  own  maid  to  look  after  her.  The  car  was 
smooth-going,  brown-leather  lined,  with  extra  silk 
cushions.  The  chauffeur  was  a  good  and  careful  man 
called  Pryce.  The  maid,  her  name  was  Burdett,  called 
her  employer  Madame  in  a  way  that  was  pleasantly 
suggestive  of  foreign  countries,  and  she  had  the  great 
merit  of  keeping  out  of  the  way  when  she  was  not 
required  to  be  in  it. 

The  farewell  to  Leesbury  was  a  pathetic  triumph. 
Every  one  within  a  few  miles  of  The  White  Hart 
knew  about  the  accident,  and  was  interested  in  the 
slight  figure,  with  the  grave  face  and  soft  eyes,  that 
wandered  slowly  on  the  common,  or  rested  on  the 
garden  chair  screened  by  the  gorse  bushes  that  made  a 
golden  setting  to  her.  Dr.  Wynne  too,  who  had  been 
active  in  seeing  local  authorities  and  urging  matters  to 
a  swift  conclusion,  told  all  his  patients  about  the  alms- 
houses,  and  then  Miss  Fingal  became  a  heroine,  though 
of  this  she  had  no  idea. 

The  old  women  themselves  were  overjoyed;  and  after 
much  talk  in  and  out  of  doorways,  two  of  them,  as  rep- 
resentative of  them  all,  paid  her  a  visit  the  day  before 
her  departure,  carrying  with  much  importance  a  nosegay 
to  which  all  their  gardens  had  contributed.  She  was  a 
little  taken  aback  at  their  arrival,  but  when  she  saw  two 
aged  and  tottering  women,  grateful  and  deferential,  full 
of  the  responsibility  of  their  mission,  her  expression 
melted  into  smiles,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  them. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  too  kind  of  you  to  come,"  she  said,  "and 
to  bring  me  such  a  charming  bouquet.  I  will  take  it 

164 


Miss  Fingal  165 

back  with  me  to-morrow.  How  sweet  they  are — I  love 
these  stocks  and  lilacs  so."  She  put  them  against  her 
face  for  a  moment,  as  Linda  would  have  done. 

"We'd  like  all  of  us  to  have  come,  miss,  but  we  knew 
it  would  have  been  too  many  for  you,  so  just  us  two 
have — to  thank  you  and  say  God  bless  you — and  we'll 
pray  for  you  every  day  as  long  as  we  live.  We  never 
heard  of  such  goodness" — the  speaker  nearly  broke 
down — "it's  been  dreadful  the  way  the  wet  came  in, 
and  now " 

Miss  Fingal  was  almost  distressed  at  their  gratitude. 
"It  will  give  me  such  comfort  to  think  of  you,"  she  said, 
and  took  a  wrinkled  hand  in  hers,  "warm  and  comfy  in 
your  mended  houses,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  thank  me 
or  to  remember  that  I  did  it;  try  to  think  that  it  is  Mrs. 
Alliston's  doing,  she  knew  you  in  her  happiest  days,  and 
cared  for  you — they  both  did.  I  feel  as  if  she  had  asked 
me  to  do  for  her  what  she  would  have  done  herself  if  it 
had  been  possible." 

"Yes,  miss,  we  know  she  would  if  she  could,"  the 
older  of  the  two  women  said — she  had  a  long  projecting 
yellow  tooth ;  it  looked  like  a  little  tusk  that  had  lost  its 
way — "she  and  Mr.  Alliston  too,  they  always  seemed  as 
if  they  wanted  to  see  others  happy:  they  used  to  come 
laughing  along  the  lane — and  he'd  have  his  arm  round 
her  shoulder  sometimes,  just  as  if  they  were  sweet- 
hearts." 

"They  were,"  the  other  old  woman  nodded  wisely. 

"They  were,"  Miss  Fingal  echoed,  and  her  heart  beat 
quicker. 

"They  come  in  to  see  us  several  times,  and  Mrs. 
Willett — at  the  last  house — made  them  a  cup  of  tea 
once — and  they'd  talk  to  us  a  lot  about  the  gardens.  No 
one  ever  would  have  thought  he'd  have  left  her.  I  be- 
lieve it  broke  her  heart — don't  you  think  it  did,  Miss? 
Children  are  a  great  deal  but  they're  not  everything." 
But  to  this  Aline  was  silent.  The  visitor  adroitly 
changed  the  subject. 

"She  was  very  fond  of  you,  miss.  She  must  have 
been  dreadfully  upset  about  the  accident.  Do  you  know 
how  it  happened?" 


166  Miss  Fingal 

"I  don't  think  I  do,"  Miss  Fingal  answered,  wonder- 
ing how  to  send  them  away  without  hurting  their  feel- 
ings. "You  see  I  became  insensible  and  knew  nothing 
after  the  first  shock." 

"And  you  didn't  hear  about  Mrs.  Alliston — nor  any- 
thing, miss?" 

"No,  about  nothing  for  a  long  time." 

"We  was  sorry  for  you,  all  of  us.  We  saw  you  go 
by  in  the  carriage  the  first  time  you  went  to  see  her  and 
afterwards  too,"  the  old  woman  in  the  black  satin 
bonnet  said,  while  the  one  with  the  tusk  waited 
impatiently  to  ask — 

"Is  it  true  you  are  going  to  London  in  your  motor- 
car— all  the  way,  miss?" 

"Yes,  all  the  way."  Then,  with  a  happy  impulse, 
"Would  you  like  to  go  home  in  it?" 

It  took  away  their  breath.  "Go  home  in  it,  why  I 
never  was  in  one  in  my  life — it  would  be  a  treat." 

"Then  you  must  go  in  one  now.  But  first  there  is  tea 
for  you  downstairs.  Miss  Burdett  will  have  some  with 
you,  if  you  don't  mind — for  I  must  rest  a  little;  but  I 
will  take  you  back  myself."  Miss  Fingal  felt  that  they 
would  resent  too  familiar  a  manner  towards  a  lady  of 
their  own  class,  hence  the  respectful  mention  of  the 
maid. 

And  so,  after  a  large  and  bounteous  meal  in  the  hotel 
parlour,  they  went  home,  sitting  'together  on  the  front 
seat.  Miss  Fingal  explained  that  she  liked  the  back  one 
better;  and  this  was  true,  for  she  dreaded  going  along 
the  narrow  road  with  her  face  towards  Highbrook  Farm. 

"We'll  never  forget  you,  miss,"  they  said.  "We  can 
hardly  believe  we  are  awake — we  never  expected  anything 
as  good  in  this  world." 

The  car  drew  up  with  a  pleasant  whiz  and  hoot  before 
the  cottages,  and  eight  more  old  women  came  out  from 
the  open  doors  and  gathered  round  and  curtseyed,  and, 
with  happiness  written  on  their  faces,  excitedly  mum- 
bled their  thanks,  and  took  the  thin  white  hands  out- 
stretched to  them. 

"God  will  bless  you,"  they  said,  "He  will— He  will," 
as  if  it  were  a  chorus. 


Miss  Fingal  167 

Then  suddenly  Aline  burst  into  tears.  "Oh,  you 
mustn't — you  mustn't  say  anything  more — please,  please 
don't  thank  me,"  she  said;  "I  love  to  do  it — it  makes 
me  so  grateful  to  all  of  you — I  shall  never  forget  this 
evening  and  your  kindness,  and  the  flowers — and  I  will 
think  of  you  very  often.  But  I  am  too  happy  to  bear  it 
any  longer — Pryce,  you  must  turn  the  car  and  go  back 
to  The  White  Hart."  And  so  waving  to  them  and 
smiling  through  her  tears  she  departed.  The  women 
watched  her  out  of  sight  and  blessed  her  and  went  into 
their  cottages  full  of  content,  knowing  that  when  the 
cold  weather  came  again,  no  driving  winds  or  drip- 
ping rains  would  find  them  out,  and  their  fires  would 
burn  brightly,  warming  them  through  and  through;  for 
Dr.  Wynne  had  told  them  that  a  fund  for  winter  coal 
had  been  created  by  their  benefactress. 

"Dear  old  women,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  went 
back  to  the  hotel,  "I  have  done  more  for  myself  than 
for  them.  I  didn't  know  what  joy  could  be  bought  with 
money.  Oh,  uncle  John,  I  am  very  grateful  now !  And 
Linda,  are  you  glad?  I  don't  grieve  for  you,  but  that 
is  only  because  I  have  been  stunned,  and  it  is  difficult  to 
know  at  first  what  one  feels  and  thinks — but  I  want  to 
do  all  the  things  that  you  wanted  done."  And  it  seemed 
as  if  Linda  whispered,  "Yes,  dear,  I  know — I  know " 

All  the  way  to  London  she  felt  like  a  woman  who  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  a  dream — a  dream-like  excite- 
ment wrapt  her  round  like  a  holiday  garment  worn  in 
church.  She  knew  that  her  whole  life  and  outlook  had 
changed:  something  was  vanishing,  breaking  down — 
the  intangible  fence,  that  had  always  seemed  to  be 
between  her  and  the  world  in  which  people  lived. 
She  was  still  on  the  threshold,  but  she  had  entered  its 
precincts,  equipped  with  new  capacities  and  emotions 
not  yet  to  be  understood,  but  that  the  future  would  make 
plain.  .  .  .  And  she  was  going  back  to  the  house  in 
Bedford  Square — from  which  the  hauntings  had  vanished 
into  oblivion.  .  .  .  And  soon  she  would  go  to  Waver- 
combe.  Her  heart  throbbed  with  an  excitement  that 
caught  her  by  the  throat :  she  had  not  known  of  her  own 
longing,  but  it  was  there  and  uplifted  her. 


168  Miss  Fingal 

The  people  in  the  hotel  had  stood  in  a  group  to  watch 
her  out  of  sight.  She  looked  back  and  strained  her  eyes 
to  see  the  last  of  them,  shuddering  a  little  as  she  passed 
the  corner  that  led  to  the  station.  Burdett,  against  her 
highly  respectful  inclination,  sat  beside  her;  and  on  the 
back  seat  carefully  shielded  from  dust  and  the  too  ardent 
rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  was  the  nosegay  from  the 
almshouses.  She  wondered  how  the  garden  at  the  farm 
looked,  and  if  the  honeysuckle  at  the  end  was  in  bloom 
yet,  and  then  suddenly  there  came  to  her  a  vision  of 
Linda's  children — on  the  seat  facing  her — going  back  with 
her  to  London,  Janet  nursing  little  Bridget,  and  Sturdie 
turning  his  face  from  side  to  side  as  they  went  along. 
She  had  often  been  conscious  of  them  lately,  as  if  they 
had  quietly  stolen  up  to  her;  in  a  measure  the  old  awk- 
wardness she  had  felt  with  children  prevented  her  from 
welcoming  them  even  in  her  thoughts  .  .  .  but  the 
awkwardness  was  different  and  eager. 

The  house  in  Bedford  Square  looked  spick  and  span 
in  its  fresh  paint.  The  dreadful  yellow  blinds  had  gone, 
there  were  half-blinds  of  silk  and  muslin,  and  flower- 
boxes  full  of  flowers  and  tender  greenery:  the  street 
door  had  become  a  deep  blue  and  the  iron  knocker 
was  replaced  by  a  beaten  brass  one.  Stimson  and  Mrs. 
Turner  and  the  maids  were  ready  to  welcome  her  just 
as  when  she  arrived,  first  of  all.  "We  are  glad  to  see 
you  back,  miss,"  they  said.  She  felt  it  to  be  a  home- 
coming to  uncle  John's  house:  the  strangeness  that  it 
should  be  home  made  her  smile. 

The  hall  and  stairs  delighted  her;  there  were  soft 
carpets  and  rugs  and  electric  lamps,  and,  though  the 
changes  were  not  finished,  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
soon  the  house  would  look  happy  and  cared-for, 
mindful  of  its  past  and  ready  for  its  future.  There  had 
been  a  great  find  in  the  drawing-room,  for,  when  the 
drab  carpet  was  taken  up,  a  parquet  floor  was  disclosed. 
It  had  been  cleaned  and  polished,  and  one  portion  of 
the  room  arranged  ready  for  its  owner.  "Mrs.  Bendish 
and  Miss  Gilston  wanted  just  to  make  it  a  bit  comfort- 
able for  you,  miss,"  Mrs.  Turner  explained,  "but  they 
thought  you  would  like  to  see  to  the  rest  yourself. 


Miss  Fingal  169 

They'll  be  here  presently.  They've  taken  a  deal  of 
trouble,  and  Stimson  and  I  have  done  what  we  could," 
she  added  humbly. 

"Yes,  dear  Mrs.  Turner,  you've  all  been  splendid." 
She  looked  round  at  the  walls — they  were  panelled  and 
painted  white,  at  the  farther  end  the  alabaster  vases 
no  longer  stood  like  ghostly  sentinels.  "We  were  sorry 
to  see  them  go,"  Mrs.  Turner  said  with  a  little  regret 
which  she  could  not  keep  out  of  her  voice,  "for  Mr. 
Fingal  thought  a  great  deal  of  them;  but  if  you  didn't 
care  for  them,  miss,  it  is  better  that  Mr.  Bendish  should 
have  them;  he  was  so  pleased — you  should  have  seen  the 
care  he  took  in  getting  them  away.  But  Miss  Gilston 
said  they  made  the  drawing-room  look  like  a  cemetery, 
and  of  course  we  don't  want  any  monuments  here,  do 
we,  miss?" 

"No,  we  don't.    I  am  going  to  love  this  room." 

"I  never  saw  any  one  so  changed  in  my  life,"  Mrs. 
Turner  told  Stimson.  "She  seems  ever  so  much 
younger,  all  those  lines  on  her  face  are  gone,  and  there's 
a  sort  of  light  in  her  eyes  that  somehow  makes  you 
wonder — just  as  if  she  had  some  sort  of  comfort  inside 
her." 

Perhaps  the  most  welcome  change  was  in  the  room 
where  uncle  John  had  died.  The  bedstead  was  still 
there — it  was  a  beautiful  bit  of  furniture,  Mrs.  Bendish 
explained  later,  and  a  privilege  to  be  born  or  to  die 
between  its  carved  posts — but  now  it  had  a  gay  embroi- 
dered valance  above  and  below,  and  a  beautiful  quilt, 
and  a  large  square  frilled  pillow  that  made  it  look 
different  altogether  from  Miss  Fingal's  recollection  of 
it.  She  sat  down  on  the  little  cushioned  couch  at  the 
foot.  I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  for  all  this,"  she 
thought,  "it  is  like  remembering  a  tomb  and  finding  a 
peaceful  heaven.  And  the  other  rooms?"  she  asked 
Mrs.  Turner. 

They  were  painted  and  papered  and  freshened  and — 
waiting.  She  tried  to  remember  the  purpose  for  which 
they  would  be  wanted,  but  she  could  not  reach  the  side 
of  her  consciousness  that  knew. 

She    went   back   to   the    drawing-room   and    sat   very 


I  yo  Miss  Fingal 

still  in  the  happy-looking  corner,  while  into  her  mind 
there  came  ideas  for  ways  in  which  to  finish  the  changes 
— things  she  could  buy  or  seek  in  shops  of  the  sort  that 
had  never  interested  her  in  the  old  days.  She  smiled  at 
the  loose  covers  and  silk  cushions  which  Mrs.  Bendish 
had  carefully  taken  the  opportunity  to  get  when  the 
chance  came, — "they  make  so  much  difference,"  she 
thought.  The  satinwood  piano  remained,  it  looked 
quaint  and  somehow  happier;  she  longed  to  hear  the 
sound  of  it  again. 

As  if  she  had  been  bidden,  Burdett  came  in  with  the 
Chopin  polonaise.  "I  thought  you  would  like  to  have 
it  here,  madame,"  she  said. 

"Open  the  piano  and  put  it  on  the  music-stand."  As 
if  hardly  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing  Miss  Fingal 
went  towards  it. 

"It's  too  difficult  for  me,"  she  said  to  herself;  but  her 
eyes  recognised  the  notes;  she  heard  them  in  her  brain 
and  found  them  naturally.  They  brought  her  messages 
— she  bent  forward — listening — waiting — entreating  in 
her  heart,  stumbling  like  one  half  awakened,  till  suddenly, 
lifting  her  hands  and  reaching  out  to  the  top  of  the 
music-stand,  she  rested  her  face  down  on  her  arms  and 
gave  herself  up  to  the  dreams  that  beset  her. 

"I  wonder  if  my  head  will  ever  be  right — or  what  has 
come  to  me " 

There  was  the  rustle  of  a  dress — "I  wouldn't  let  them 
announce  me,  I  just  walked  up."  Bertha  Gilston  was 
there,  calm  and  cheerful  as  usual — and  untidy  of  course. 
"Mrs.  Bendish  and  I  were  coming  to  ask  what  you  think 
of  our  efforts,  but  she  was  prevented  at  the  last  minute," 
she  explained. 

"It's  rather  nice  to  get  you  alone,"  Aline  said  and 
kissed  her:  it  seemed  natural.  "She  has  been  wonder- 
fully good,  you  both  have;  I  don't  believe  you  know 
how  much  you  have  done  for  me."  This  was  when  they 
had  gone  to  the  corner  and  the  inevitable  tea-table  was 
between  them.  "You  have  changed  the  whole  house 
and  helped  to  change  my  whole  life — though  I  am  half 
afraid  of  people  still " 

"That's   only  because  you've  lived  too  much  alone," 


Miss  Fingal  171 

Bertha  said,  fumbling  for  her  everlasting  cigarette 
"This  is  going  to  be  quite  a  nice  place  now,  let  people 
see  you  in  it,  and  give  them  food — food  is  so  humanising. 
And  lunch  out,  dine  out,  do  anything  you've  not  done 
before.  You  want  experience." 

"I  know — but  it  takes  courage;  I  have  more  than 
I  had,"  with  a  little  smile  that  Bertha  found  fascinating, 
"but  I  don't  know  how  to  begin." 

"My  dear,  you  won't  find  much  difficulty,  you  bet. 
People  in  London  love  money,  adore  it,  and  do  all  they 
know  to  make  other  people  spend  it.  My  stepmother, 
by  the  way,  means  to  ask  you  to  luncheon.  Lord 
Stockton  wants  to  meet  you,  he  heard  of  your  kindness 
to  Linda.  He  hasn't  married  his  Girton  girl  yet — 
I  think  they  are  bored  with  each  other;  but  she  fits  in 
with  his  theory  of  marriage. 

"How  does  she  fit  in?" 

"Well,  she's  clever  and  agreeable.  There  are  a  few 
subjects  she  can  talk  about  as  if  she  understood  them 
and  she  likes  country  life.  He  says  he  wants  to  settle 
down  in  the  country — though  I  think  he  only  imagines 
it:  people's  tastes  and  theories  are  often  at  variance. 
He  has  a  big  place  in  Sussex,  a  grey-haired  mother  and 
a  sister,  who  go  to  church  twice  on  Sunday  and  take 
an  interest  in  poor  people;  and  the  life  his  people  have 
always  led  is  the  sort  he  thinks  he  ought  to  encourage 
for  the  sake  of  the  country  and  its  traditions.  What 
he  really  enjoys  is  being  in  London,  seeing  life  with  an 
air  of  disapproval  and  pretending  that  he  wants  to  do 
good  works."  She  knocked  the  ashes  from  her  cigarette 
into  her  saucer.  "Frivolling  without  laughter — that 
describes  his  present  occupation.  He  goes  to  night- 
clubs and  pretends  to  be  shocked  in  order  to  be  certain 
that  he  is  highly  virtuous."  She  stopped  for  a  moment. 
"Poor  Cyril  Batson "  she  laughed. 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  it — and  why  poor?"  Aline 
asked. 

"Because  he  is  in  love  with  Cissie  Repton.  He  took 
her  out  one  night,  and  gave  her  supper  at  vast  expense, 
and  then  she  let  Edward  Stockton  see  her  home  and 
snubbed  Cyril.  But  that  was  some  time  ago.  By 


172  Miss  Fingal 

the  way,  Jimmy  is  coming  to  see  you  to-day  or  to- 
morrow." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him." 

"And  I  want  you  to  come  to  tea  at  my  studio.  Dis- 
sipations are  piling  up  before  you,  my  dear." 

"If  only  my  head  holds  out,"  Aline  held  it  between 
her  hands,  leaning  forward. 

"It's  a  pretty  head,"  Bertha  said  almost  affectionately, 
"and  now  you  do  your  hair  like  that,"  she  touched  it 
softly,  "you  make  me  think  of  Linda,  though  your 
face  is  quite  different.  I  was  telling  Dick  Alliston  about 
you  last  night." 

"Dick  Alliston!  Then  you  have  seen  him?"  she 
said  quickly. 

"Yes.  He  knows  that  you  went  to  see  Linda.  I 
wish  you  knew  him." 

She  shook  her  pretty  head.  "I  couldn't  forgive  him 
for  all  he  did  to  her." 

"I  don't,"  Bertha  answered  calmly,  "but  I  don't  want 
to  leave  him  to  his  own  damnation  and  the  wiles  of 
Cherry  Ripe." 

"I  can't  think  why  he  left  Linda — when  she  loved 
him  so  much." 

"Loved  him  too  much,  as  I  told  you  at  Leesbury. 
It  never  does.  Be  very  wily  with  your  lovers,  my  dear,'* 
she  added  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye,  "and  keep  them 
at  a  respectful  arm's  length." 

"I  will,"  Aline  answered  with  a  weary  little  smile, 
"but  I  can't  imagine  any  one  ever  loving  me."  She 
thought  of  the  man  and  woman  standing  by  the  pond', 
at  Wavercombe,  and  a  moment's  longing  and  aching- 
took  hold  of  her.  .  .  .  Then  she  asked,  "Did  Mr.  Alliston. 
say  anything  about  his  children?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"It's  so  curious — but  they  are  always,  always — at  the 
back  of  my  thoughts.  I  hear  their  voices  sometimes, 
and  to-day  I  imagined  them  in  the  motor-car,  sitting 
opposite  to  me — yet  I  only  saw  them  twice,  and  they 
didn't  like  me  much — they  were  shy — it  was  Linda  I 
went  to  see." 

"I  wish  you  had  them  here,"  in  a  leisurely  voice. 


Miss  Fingal  173 

"I  should  be  afraid  of  not  doing  the  right  thing. 
And  perhaps  they  would  not  care  for  me.  ...  I  never 
knew  any  children." 

"You  may  marry,  of  course,  and  have  some  of  your 
own,"  Bertha  said  absently:  then  rather  abruptly,  "When 
will  you  come  and  see  my  flat?  It  must  be  soon, 
for  presently  I  am  going  to  visit  my  humble  relations 
in  Gloucestershire.  My  uncle  is  a  market-gardener, 
which  is  one  reason  why  my  stepmother  looks  down  on 
us — I  believe  she  thinks  he  is  a  greengrocer.  She  isn't 
snobby,  you  know;  but  she  belonged  to  one  set  all  her 
life,  till  she  met  my  father,  and  we  belong  to  another. 
She  believes  in  an  upper  and  a  lower  class — so  do  I. 
We've  got  on  a  little,  because  my  father  made  money 
and  could  afford  to  educate  us  and  do  things  he  had 
never  done  before.  When  the  foundations  are  strong 
enough  and  we  are  sufficiently  licked  into  shape  we  may 
really  belong  to  her  class — now  we  are  only  mush- 
rooms." Bertha  knocked  the  ashes  from  her  cigarette. 
"She  has  done  her  duty  by  us,"  she  went  on,  "and  as 
duty  is  seldom  pleasant  I  respect  her:  there's  no  partic- 
ular occasion  to  do  more."  She  smoked  peacefully  for 
a  moment.  "When  are  you  going  to  the  cottage?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  soon;  it  seems  to  be  calling  me, 
Bertha  dear" — she  looked  up  with  a  half-frightened 
expression  in  her  eyes.  "I  don't  think  I  knew  how  to 
live  anywhere  till  lately." 

"You're  a  strange  creature,  my  Aline."  Bertha  gave 
her  a  large  benevolent  smile.  "I  wonder  if  you  were 
changed  at  birth  and  have  only  just  realised  the  fact. 
Perhaps  some  day  I  shall  see  you  begin  a  lurid  course 
of  dissipation." 

"I  don't  think  you  will,"  with  a  gay  little  laugh  that 
made  Bertha  look  up:  it  was  like  an  echo. 

"It  would  probably  bore  you — it's  overrated  like  most 
things.  My  dear,  you  have  learnt  to  laugh — it  is  always 
a  good  asset,  and  you  have  grown  prettier  since  that 
day  when  Jimmy  and  I  had  tea  with  you.  And,  you 
look  so  much  happier  than  you  did — which  is  rather 
strange  all  things  considered, — what  has  come  to 
you?" 


174  Miss  Fingal 

"The  summer — it  is  early  summer  already,"  Aline 
answered ;  "it  seems  to  have  gathered  me  in ;  only  the 
winter  did  before:  I  thought  that  when  I  was  at  Waver- 
combe  and  the  cold  rain  fell  nearly  all  the  time,  and  the 
wind  seemed  to  be  seeking  for  something  and  never 
finding  it  among  the  trees." 

"Well — I  give  it  up.  But  look  here,  I  will  help  you 
and  so  will  Mrs.  Bendish,  if  you  want  her,  to  get  through 
this  house  business,  and  then  hurry  off  to  Wavercombe; 
it's  lovely  at  this  time  of  year,  and  my  parents  are  not 
there  yet  to  worry  you." 

"Oh  yes,  I  want  to  go — I  have  written  to  Webb 
already.  I  shall  motor."  She  considered  for  a  moment. 
"Bertha,"  she  said  with  a  little  burst,  "I  think  I  will 
go  there  to-morrow " 

"You  mustn't! — it  would  be  madness  after  your  jour- 
ney to-day." 

"I  want  to  see  it  again — so  much." 

"But  you  are  not  strong  enough  yet.  It  is  a  great 
strain,  going  a  long  distance  two  days  running  after  an 
illness.  Besides,  Mrs.  Bendish  and  I  have  worked  so 
hard  at  this  house.  You  must  stay  in  London  now, 
you  erratic  person,  and  help  us  finish  it  up.  I  shall  be 
away  the  week  after  next — wait  till  then." 

"If  I  went  for  just  a  day?"  she  pleaded. 

"It  is  too  far." 

"For  one  night  then?  I  must  see  it  again,  Bertha; 
think  of  all  that  time  I  was  at  The  White  Hart,  all 
through  the  spring,  and  I  not  there " 

"But  in  the  winter  you  did  not  care  a  bit  for  going 
to  the  cottage.  Father  was  so  surprised." 

"All  that  seems  like  years  ago  and  belonging  to 
another  order  of  things." 

"Again,  I  give  it  up,"  Bertha  said — "you  are  obsti- 
nate, as  Linda  was,  so  go  and  get  it  over,  my  dear;  but 
let  us  finish  off  here  quickly,  after  to-morrow,  ready  for 
all  your  balls  and  dinner-parties" — she  got  up.  "It's 
time  I  returned  to  my  humble  flat." 

She  changed  her  mind  outside  and  went  to  the  Em- 
bankment and  up  to  Jimmy's  rooms.  He  was  reading 
by  the  open  window.  The  trees  beneath  were  thickly 


Miss  Fingal  175 

green — the  river  looked  sleepy,  the  slow-moving  craft 
seemed  to  caress  it. 

"What  the  devil  brought  you  here?"  he  asked  lazily. 

"A  mere  desire  to  see  you,  and  to  sit  for  ten  minutes 
by  your  open  window." 

He  pulled  a  chair  towards  it.  "Where  have  you 
been?" 

"To  Aline  Fingal.  Jimmy,  I  wonder  why  we  have 
taken  her  up  and  feel  so  attracted  to  her?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  got  down  a  pipe.  "Some  queer 
reason  tucked  away  in  the  scheme  of  things." 


IV. 


THROUGH  the  long  twilight  she  sat  counting  the  hours 
till  the  morrow,  content  yet  impatient,  glad  of  her 
sudden  resolution.  Now  that  she  had  let  the  inclination 
loose,  she  knew  that  she  had  been  longing  to  see  the 
cottage  again,  that  she  was  waiting  for  the  moment 
when  she  would  start  on  her  way  to  it.  She  imagined 
so  much  that  had  happened  there;  Dick  Alliston  and 
Linda,  when  they  were  first  married,  planning  the  alter- 
ations to  the  garden — Linda  arranging  flowers — tea- 
time  under  the  acacia-tree  on  the  little  lawn,  or  lazy 
novel-reading  in  the  sunshine — and  tete-a-tete  dinners  in 
the  dining-room,  when  Linda  wore  her  prettiest  gar- 
ments to  charm  the  lover  who  was  her  husband.  .  .  . 
She  lost  herself  in  a  dream  of  that  bygone  happiness  of 
another  woman.  There  were  the  jaunts  to  Normandy 
and  Brittany — the  going  to  London  and  Dick's  invention, 
his  carelessness  as  to  who  had  the  credit  for  it  so  long 
as  the  thing  was  done;  the  coming  of  Sturdie  .  .  .  then 
the  gradual  change — his  absences  and  forgetting.  .  .  . 

Stimson  came  in  and  switched  on  a  lamp  and  two  or 
three  of  the  electric  candles;  they  filled  the  room  with 
softly  shaded  light.  The  ghostly  crowd  that  once  had 
stolen  in  among  the  grey  shadows,  but  that  no  light 
reached  or  disclosed,  though  she  had  felt  them  to  be  there, 
had  gone,  as  the  lonely  silent  self  of  long  years  had  gone : 
for  in  her  heart  there  was  companionship.  And  to  the 
room — the  new  room  as  she  called  it  to  herself — 
there  came — through  all  the  waking  hours  of  day  and 
twilight  hours  of  evening — the  children;  she  smiled  at 
them  and  held  out  her  arms  to  them,  and  realised  that 

176 


Miss  Fingal  177 

she  loved  them — she  who  had  never  cared  for  children 
felt  herself  longing,  waiting  for  Sturdie  and  Bridget. 

She  thought  of  what  Bertha  had  said,  and  then  of 
the  empty  rooms  above,  of  the  closed  rooms  at  the 
cottage,  and  hazily  of  the  meaning  they  might  hold  for 
her;  but  it  was  only  the  suggestion  of  her  tired  fancy, 
the  reaching  out  into  the  impossible  that  comes  to  all 
day-dreamers  .  .  .  and  she  thought,  but  with  a  fear  that 
made  her  tremble  and  draw  back,  of  Dick  Alliston. 
Lately  he,  too,  had  come  into  her  vision,  not  clearly  as 
the  children  did,  but  to  the  background;  he  brought  pain 
and  dismay,  she  turned  away  from  him,  yet  she  knew  him 
to  be  there.  She  hurried  her  thoughts  in  other  directions 
— but  he  followed  them.  ...  It  was  the  children  she 
wanted — to  see  them,  hear  them,  feel  that  they  were  not 
afraid  of  her.  .  .  .  What  was  Lady  Hester  going  to  do 
with  them?  .  .  .  "I'll  come  to  you,  dears,"  she  cried.  "I'll 
come.  I  should  love  to  see  you  with  the  Italian  sky 
over  you,  and  its  sea  beside  you, — Sturdie's  little  feet  run- 
ning on  the  sand,  and  Bridget  turning  her  eyes  west- 
ward— towards  the  land  in  which  her  mother  was.  .  .  . 

0  dear  God,  what  was  the  message  she  sent  me,  shall 

1  never  know?"     She  strained  her  eyes  to  see,  her  ears 
to  hear,  her  heart  with  longing,  but  there  only  came  to 
her  the  sense  of  an  open  window,  a  dim  room  .  .  .  dark- 
ness without  and  a  forlorn   fugitive  on  a  lonely  road. 
...  It  was  no  good,  she  must  think  of  to-morrow — of 
to-morrow  and  the  cottage.  .  .  . 

She  surprised  her  household  by  the  early  hour  of  her 
rising  and  her  impatience  to  start.  It  was  lovely  to 
feel  the  fresh  spring  air  upon  her  face.  Pryce  knew  all 
the  details  of  the  road  and  the  inn  half-way  at  which 
they  were  to  lunch.  .  .  .  The  motor  was  open,  of  course, 
and  as  they  went  smoothly  along,  it  seemed  like  the 
dream  of  a  journey  that  she  had  made  in  a  waking  time 
long  ago.  She  did  not  know  the  names  of  the  places 
she  passed ;  but  vaguely  she  recognised  them  and  felt 
that  they  knew  whither  she  was  going,  and  what  there 
was  to  do  at  the  other  end.  There  were  fir  woods,  dark 
and  high,  on  either  side  of  the  yellow  roads  as  the  car 
whizzed  into  Surrey,  or  wide  stretches  of  open  land  with 


178  Miss  Fingal 

bell-heather  and  clumps  of  fresh  green  whortleberry,  small 
leaves  and  sturdy,  very  low  on  the  ground;  but  the  little 
purple  fruit  was  not  yet  ripe.  Wild  parsley  and  taller 
foxglove  by  the  wayside,  and,  as  she  went  on  to  Hamp- 
shire, masses  of  double  lady's-smock  and  stitchwort, 
blue-eyed  speedwell  and  all  the  wealth  of  wild  flowers 
she  had  seen  at  Leesbury.  She  felt  as  if  they  too  knew 
better  than  she  some  secret  of  her  future,  and  watched 
her  going  towards  it.  She  looked  back  at  the  Surrey 
hills.  In  the  winter  they  had  been  shrouded  in  mist  and 
rain,  but  now  that  the  light  caressed  their  darkness  and 
blueness,  or  the  sunshine  fell  on  the  ground  before  them, 
as  if  loath  to  disturb  the  summer  haze  that  clung  to 
them,  they  made  a  mysterious  background,  a  heavenly 
barrier  to  the  landscape,  and  something  akin  to  worship 
filled  her  heart.  .  .  . 

The  cottage  looked  altogether  different:  her  heart 
bounded  when  she  saw  it  resting  joyously  in  its  setting"; 
the  trees  had  burst  into  leaf  and  bloom,  the  horse-chest- 
nuts and  laburnums.  Honeysuckle  and  clematis  rioted, 
and  a  rose-tree  climbed  over  the  porch.  As  the  car 
drew  near,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  orchard  far  back 
at  the  side.  The  blossom  was  not  quite  over  though  it 
was  not  what  it  had  been,  Webb  told  her,  when  he  took 
her  along  the  flagged  pathway — every  stone  was  full  of 
meaning  and  had  a  memory  for  her.  She  stood  in  the 
grass  that  grew  high  in  the  orchard,  green  covering  her 
feet,  white  blossom  crowning  the  greenness  above  her 
head,  and  the  sunshine  everywhere — it's  gold  came  fleck- 
ing through  the  branches.  "This  is  my  real  home,"  she 
felt;  "in  Bedford  Square  there  will  be  peace,  and  I  am 
going  to  live  there  a  great  deal,  but  this  is  my  home." 
Webb  showed  her  all  the  plantings  and  improvements, 
the  labels  on  the  flower-beds,  the  fast-growing  hedge 
inside  the  rabbit  fence  that  had  replaced  the  barbed 
wire,  and  the  kitchen-garden,  and  explained  the  pros- 
pects and  mysteries  of  early  crops. 

Inside  the  cottage,  Mrs.  Webb  and  Emma  were  ready 
and  anxious  to  wait  on  her,  a  little  resentful  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  brought  a  lady's-maid,  sympathetic  about 
her  accident,  and  silent  concerning  the  tragedy  at  High- 


Miss  Fingal  179 

brook  Farm,  as  a  subject  not  for  them  to  broach.  They 
had  decked  the  hall  with  green  boughs  placed  in  the 
pots  that  had  waited  for  them  through  the  winter,  and 
flowers  were  in  the  drawing-room.  And  in  all  the  rooms 
there  was  the  memory  of  happiness — subdued  and  sad- 
dened— lingering  for  her  to  carry  on:  the  means  were 
hidden  as  yet,  as  the  mists  had  hidden  the  Surrey  hills 
in  the  winter,  but  they  would  be  made  plain  when  the 
mists  in  her  brain  had  gone  and  the  light  came. 

She  went  up  to  her  room — the  scent  of  the  outside 
roses  rilled  it.  The  writing-table  and  the  little  book- 
case with  the  volumes  of  poetry  in  it  seemed  like 
friends.  She  looked  at  the  bed  on  which  Linda  had 
shed  hopeless  tears  in  the  first  days  of  her  misery. 
"I  have  come  back,"  she  said,  "I  have  come  to  your 
home,  dearest,  to  guard  it  and  care  for  it."  She  sat 
down  by  the  open  window  and  reaching  to  a  crimson 
rose  held  it  against  her  face. 

Presently  Mrs.  Webb  appeared,  "anxious  to  see  her 
without  the  maid."  "Poor  young  lady,"  she  said  when 
at  last  they  spoke  of  Linda,  "we  were  grieved  to 
hear  that  she  had  gone,  and  glad  that  you  were  near 
her — almost  to  the  end,  weren't  you,  miss?  I  am  sure 
she  liked  knowing  that  you  had  got  this  place,  for  she 
did  love  it,  and  you  see  Mr.  Fingal — well,  it  never 
seemed  to  belong  to  him  somehow.  I  was  saying  that 
to  Emma  only  yesterday  when  your  telegram  came. 
We  set  to  and  got  the  rooms  ready  at  once.  I  hope 
you  think  it  all  looks  nice,  miss?" 

"Oh,  yes,  very.  And  now  it  must  all  be  kept  ready 
— as  if  she  were  coming  back,  just  as  it  is  now.  It  is 
lovely,  and  the  other  rooms  must  be  opened  too.  They 
may  be  wanted  quite  suddenly."  The  words  said  them- 
selves, and  she  smiled  a  happy  dreamy  smile  that  set 
Mrs.  Webb  wondering. 

"Yes,  miss,"  she  said,  "there  are  only  the  dust  sheets 
to  take  off — we  have  given  the  little  square  room  to 
your  maid,  we  thought  you  would  like  her  near  you; 
so  there  are  only  the  two  at  the  end  of  the  passage  not 
used :  we  made  the  dressing-room  ready  in  case  you 
liked  keeping  the  door  open  and  going  to  look  out  at 


180  Miss  Fingal 

the  garden.  We  wish  you  were  going  to  stay  longer, 
for  this  place  is  lovely  in  summer;  Mr.  Randall  said 
so  only  the  other  day.  He's  called  every  month  to 
know  when  you  were  likely  to  be  back,  and  was  very 
sorry  to  hear  of  your  accident.  When  do  you  think  you 
will  be  here  again,  miss?  It's  such  a  long  way  to  come 
just  for  one  night." 

"I  don't  know — but  soon,  very  soon."  Her  eyes  had 
perplexity  in  them,  and  the  conflict  in  her  mind,  as  of 
emotion  and  knowledge,  left  only  bewilderment  and 
blankness. 

She  went  back  to  London  in  the  morning  rested  and 
content,  loaded  with  green  boughs  and  flowers.  She 
laughed  a  little  as  she  looked  at  them  knowing  how 
incongruous  they  would  have  looked  only  a  year  ago 
in  uncle  John's  gloomy  house,  but  it  was  such  a  differ- 
ent house  now,  and  it  would  be  a  delightful  excitement 
to  arrange  them.  "If  we  could  only  find  enough  glasses 
and  vases  for  them!"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Turner.  "We 
must  buy  some,  for  Webb  is  going  to  send  up  a  hamper 
every  week." 

"You  see,  miss,  Mr.  Fingal  never  had  a  flower  in  the 
house,"  the  worthy  woman  explained,  feeling  apologetic 
for  her  late  master,  "four  silver  candlesticks  on  the  table 
if  he  had  a  visitor,  two  when  he  was  alone.  As  for 
flowers,  he  disapproved  of  them.  Once  when  my  sister 
sent  me  some  sweet-peas  and  I  put  a  few  on  the  table  in 
his  study,  he  seemed  quite  put  out.  He  said  flowers  had 
a  way  of  dropping  and  made  the  place  untidy." 

"The  house  is  going  to  be  untidy  very  often,"  Miss 
Fingal  told  her,  "it's  going  to  be  made  happy  and  alive." 

"Well,  it's  wanted  to  be  that,  miss,  it  used  to  be  so 
quiet,  on  winter  nights  especially,  you  might  have  heard 
the  dead  turn  in  their  graves,  and  I  said  to  Stimson 
once  that  a  child's  voice  has  never  been  heard  in  it  all 
the  time  I  have  lived  here." 

"Never  a  child's  voice  had  been  heard  in  it.  .  .  ."  She 
thought  over  the  words.  .  .  . 

The  next  few  days  were  hurrying  days — there  were 
workmen  to  clear  out,  furniture  to  move  or  to  send 


Miss  Fingal  181 

away  or  to  receive,  and  the  disused  rooms  to  make 
ready.  "I  want  them  all  to  be  open,  ready  and  fit  to 
live  in,"  she  said — "I  could  not  bear  a  silent  house  and 
closed  windows  and  shut  doors  again." 

Mrs.  Bendish  and  Bertha  came  and  lunched  and  went 
out  with  her  afterwards  to  choose  some  of  the  things 
that  were  still  wanted,  but  she  was  no  longer  hazy  about 
them  as  she  had  been,  she  knew  and  recognised  them: 
and  luckily  expense  was  no  object.  All  the  Brussels 
carpets  had  vanished,  soft  felt  and  Axminster  and  valu- 
able rugs  had  taken  their  place.  The  worn  law-books  in 
the  library,  the  old  faded  volumes  she  had  never  had 
courage  to  open  and  the  yellow  parchment  map  had 
gone  too;  the  book-shelves  remained,  but  they  held  the 
works  chiefly  of  mid-Victorian  writers,  Thackeray  and 
Dickens,  the  historians  and  poets.  The  ponderous 
writing-table  and  bronze  inkstand  were  not  molested, 
she  had  felt  that  it  would  be  unkind  to  banish  them, 
bound  up  as  they  were  with  memories  of  that  strange 
morning  when  she  had  set  forth  from  Battersea  to  hear 
of  her  fortune. 

Sir  James  dropped  in  a  few  days  later  and  was 
delighted  to  find  this  evidence  of  her  gratitude.  "That 
table  is  an  excellent  bit  of  furniture,"  he  said,  "and  I'm 
relieved  to  see  that  you  have  not  turned  it  out  of  doors. 
You  young  ladies  have  queer  ideas  nowadays ;  upon 
my  word,  the  way  the  world  marches  on  is  extraor- 
dinary: I  don't  wonder  John  Brown's  body  preferred 
staying  behind  to  moulder  in  the  ground."  He  appeared 
to  consider  this  a  highly  humorous  remark.  "And 
now  tell  me  what  induced  you  to  set  about  doing  up 
those  cottages  at  Leesbury?" 

"I  wanted  to  do  it,"  she  answered,  "you  can't  think 
what  dear  old  things  they  are  who  live  in  them." 

"I  dare  say — I  dare  say,"  he  repeated — "I  always 
prefer  dear  young  things  myself, — but  you  are  doing  it 
so  lavishly,  you  might  have  tinkered  them  up  a  bit  for  a 
hundred  or  two  to  last  out  the  present  set  of  occupants, 
and  left  some  one  else  to  look  after  the  next  lot." 

"I  want  them  done  properly — as  best  they  can  be 
done,"  she  answered  gently,  but  with  a  determined 


1 82  Miss  Fingal 

note  in  her  voice  that  made  him  tell  himself  she  had 
taken  the  bit  between  her  teeth.  "You  must  be  very 
good,  Sir  James,  and  not  interfere  at  all  in  that 
business." 

"Bendish  tells  me  that  the  gardens  are  to  be  put  in 
order  too,  pig-sties  erected,  chicken-runs  made,  rabbit- 
hutches  and  beehives  bought,  and  the  Lord  only  knows 
what  besides." 

"And  the  Lord  and  the  parish,  and  Dr.  Wynne  and 
the  lawyers  only  know  what  besides — at  present,"  she 
laughed. 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "Why,  you've 
become  quite  jocular.  I  expect  you  enjoy  having  your 
own  way.  It's  very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure,  to  do  up  the 
cottages  or  almshouses,  or  whatever  they  are.  You 
must  stipulate  that  they  put  a  plate  on  the  centre  one, 
stating  what  you  have  done  for  them." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  for  the  world,"  she  answered  quickly ; 
"if  it  has  any  tablet  at  all  it  wouldn't  have  my  name  but 
'In  memory  of  Linda  Alliston.'  It  is  through  her,  for 
she  wanted  to  do  it." 

"That's  a  very  different  story — we  all  of  us  want  to 
do  things  and  don't.  Never  hide  your  light  under  a 
bushel.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  won't  allow  any 
tribute  to  your  generosity  to  appear?" 

"It  isn't  generosity.  I've  given  myself  a  great 
satisfaction,  a  great  happiness,  and  it  has  to  be  paid 
for." 

"It  will  cost  you  £1000  or  more — what  with  the 
gardens  and  the  rest  of  it;  there  are  ten  houses,  all 
of  them  only  fit  to  pull  down." 

"I  don't  care  what  it  costs.  What  is  the  use  of  money 
unless  one  spends  it?" 

"Why,  that  is  what  Jimmy  says — he  said  the  other 
day  that  it  didn't  matter  whether  it  was  gold  or  a  lump 
of  coal  till  you  wanted  to  spend  or  burn  it." 

"He  is  quite  right." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  but  I  don't  agree  with 
you.  Money  is  the  great  power  in  these  days  and 
should  be  spent  so  as  to  get  the  utmost  value  out  of  it." 

"That   is   what   I   am   doing,   dear   Sir  James.    And 


Miss  Fingal  183 

you  need  not  upbraid  me,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 
"Think  how  much  you  have  spent  on  kindness." 

"I?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I've  given  some  to  hospitals 
and  institutions  of  course." 

"I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  Linda  told  me  how  kind 
you  were,  and  how  generous."  His  face  softened  in  a 
moment. 

"Did  she?  But  I  was  very  fond  of  her,  poor  thing. 
She  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  have  married 
Alliston,  though  one  couldn't  help  liking  the  dog,  I  must 
say  that  for  him.  I'm  glad  she  told  you  I  was  kind  to 
her;  but  you  are  beginning  to  throw  about  your  money, 
young  lady.  Take  care  you  don't  end  up  as  a  spend- 
thrift :  Bendish  and  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be  hoarded 
at  one  time.  I  won't  interfere  about  the  cottages  if 
Linda  wanted  them  done — she  was  a  charming  creature. 
You  never  met  her  mother,  Lady  Hester.  She  is  clever 
and  a  thorough  woman  of  the  world — been  in  the  best 
society  all  her  life  of  course — she's  a  woman  of  very 
good  family" — at  which  Miss  Fingal  smiled. 

"I  don't  know  her." 

"You  will,  you  may  depend  upon  that;  she  makes  a 
point  of  knowing  rich  people.  I'm  always  afraid  of  her 
turning  up  and  planting  the  children  at  Beechwood.  It 
is  the  sort  of  thing  she  would  do  and  never  turn  a  hair: 
nice  children,  no  doubt,  but  I  have  had  enough  of  my 
own.  By  the  way,  I  hear  you  are  coming  to  lunch  with 
us  to-morrow.  Lady  Gilston  has  invited  Lord  Stockton; 
he  is  a  cousin  of  ours — hers  that  is."  He  stroked  his 
nose  while  he  said  it.  "Has  a  bee  in  his  bonnet,  but 
he  is  all  right  and  a  charming  fellow." 

He  took  his  departure  feeling  that  he  had  been  tactful 
and  agreeable,  and  pleased  at  seeing  how  much  happier 
and  interested  in  things  generally  he  had  found  his 
ward,  as  he  liked  to  call  her  to  others,  than  she  had  been 
six  months  ago. 


V. 


SHE  wandered  over  the  house  in  the  afternoon — after  Sir 
James's  visit — giving  herself  the  infinite  relief  of  realising 
all  the  changes  that  had  been  made,  and  not  taking  into 
account  that  the  summer  sun  was  responsible  for  much 
of  the  cheerfulness  that  reigned. 

"I  am  beginning  to  love  this  place  too,"  she  told 
herself.  The  white  panelled  rooms,  and  the  branches  of 
leaves  and  blossom  gave  her  a  sense  of  happiness  that 
would  have  been  a  little  absurd  if  it  had  not  been  pathetic 
— it  seemed  almost  impossible  that  she  could  have  lived 
for  eight  years  silent  and  alone  in  the  Battersea  flat. 

The  drawing-room  pleased  her  more  than  any  other 
part  of  the  house,  it  was  so  light  and  comfortable,  the 
trees  in  the  square  were  so  green;  they  looked  in  from 
across  the  way  with  a  stately  air  of  age  and  subdued 
knowledge  that  made  her  feel  towards  them  as  she  had 
towards  the  houses  in  Cheyne  Walk.  The  piano  was 
open,  it  was  always  open,  she  had  discovered  that  she 
was  hungry  for  the  sound  of  music.  She  remembered 
how  she  used  to  read  the  prospectus  of  the  opera  in  the 
spring  and  think  that  some  day — some  day,  when  she 
had  courage — she  would  go  to  the  gallery  on  a  Wagner 
night.  "I  will  now,"  she  thought,  it  was  a  sudden 
inspiration,  "and  invite  Bertha  and  Jimmy — before  she 
goes  away,  but  we  will  have  a  box,  a  large  one  so 
that  we  can  lean  back  in  corners  to  listen.  There  are 
strange  roads  through  music,  I  could  go  along  them  to 
the  world's  end  in  the  dream-way  I  have  learnt  lately." 
She  stopped,  as  if  even  at  the  thought  of  them  she  had 
travelled  far,  and  looked  round  uneasily,  and  listened 

184 


Miss  Fingal  185 

and  smiled  as  if  she  had  recognised  some  one  she  had 
loved.  ...  "I  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  "how  long 
it  would  take  to  get  to  Mentone  and  if  they  are  still 
there.  If  they  have  gone  on  to  some  other  place  we 
might  follow  and " 

Then  the  door  opened  and  Stimson  appeared  with  an 
injured  expression  on  his  face. 

"Miss  Cissie  Repton,  miss,  wants  to  know  if  you 
will  see  her." 

"Who?" 

"Miss  Cissie  Repton,"  he  repeated.  "I  told  her  I 
thought  not,"  he  added  sternly. 

There  was  a  low  ripple  of  laughter;  a  merry  voice 
said,  "But  you  will,  won't  you?"  And  Cherry  Ripe, 
flushed  and  amused,  walked  in.  She  wore  a  white  frock, 
a  little  cluster  of  roses  was  in  her  bosom,  on  her  head 
a  coquettish  toque  with  a  wreath  of  roses  round  it  that 
set  off  the  burnished  gold  of  the  hair  beneath  it.  "You 
will,  won't  you?  Your  butler  is  frightfully  grumpy.  I 
just  followed  him  up." 

Miss  Fingal  rose  to  her  feet  and  looked  at  her  visitor 
with  speechless  astonishment,  and  then,  retreating,  she 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  open  piano. 

Cherry  Ripe  remembered  it  was  so  that  Linda  had 
stood  when  she  entered  unceremoniously  upon  her,  just 
as  she  had  done  upon  Miss  Fingal  to-day.  "You  don't 
know  me,"  she  said,  "but  I  was  at  Leesbury  the  day  of 
the  train  smash  and  awfully  sorry  about  your  accident. 
I've  come  to  ask  after  you.  Last  time  I  saw  you,  you 
were  being  carried  along  on  a  stretcher." 

"Oh  yes,  they  told  me.  You  kindly  brought  up  a 
message  to  them  here,"  Miss  Fingal  answered.  "Thank 
you  for  calling  to  inquire,"  she  added  with  the  curious 
aloofness  that  often  distinguished  her. 

"Don't  mention  it,  glad  to  see  you  about."  Cherry 
Ripe  sent  a  wandering  glance  round  the  room  and  sat 
down.  "Do  you  feel  all  right  again?  Awful  bore  for 
you,  wasn't  it?  Lucky  you're  not  disfigured." 

"Yes."  Miss  Fingal's  manner  showed  that  her  visitor, 
having  made  her  polite  inquiry,  was  not  expected  to 
stay  any  longer,  or  to  sit  down. 


1 86  Miss  Fingal 

"How  did  you  get  on,  you  were  ill  for  a  long  time, 
weren't  you?" 

"Yes,  for  a  long  time." 

"Linda  Alliston  died  a  few  days  after,  didn't  she?  I 
didn't  hear  for  certain  when  it  was." 

"Did  you  know  Mrs.  Alliston?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  had  been  to  see  her  the  day  of 
your  smash." 

"I  wonder  you  dared " 

"Easily  done,  it  was  an  adventure — I  love  adventure, 
don't  you?  Shouldn't  think  you  did  though,"  in  an 
amused  tone.  "I  live  on  it.  Poor  Linda,  I  was  awfully 
sorry  for  her." 

Miss  Fingal  raised  her  head.  "Did  you  usually  call 
her  by  her  Christian  name?" 

"Always — behind  her  back.  I  only  saw  her  once — 
no,  twice.  Of  course  you  know  who  I  am,  so  it's  no 
good  beating  about  the  bush.  I  saw  her  in  the  divorce 
court  first,  I  told  her  so " 

"You  told  her?"    Her  listener  was  petrified. 

"I  did.  But  you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with 
a  feather  when  I  saw  how  unhappy  and  ill  she  was — 
and  I  just  cursed  myself  for  what  I  had  done."  The 
expression  in  her  eyes  made  her  beautiful  for  a  moment. 

Miss  Fingal   saw  it  and  in  a  sense  was  fascinated.     "It 
was  dreadful — what  you  did,"  she  said  coldly. 
*  "But  why  are  you  starched  about  it — were  you  so  fond 
of  her?" 

"I  loved  her  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
She  was  very  ill — dying — you  might  at  least  have  left 
her  alone." 

"It  was  beastly  of  me,  but  I  had  to  see  her.  ...  I 
used  to  think  about  her  so  much,  she  was  always  in 
my  thoughts,  she  and  Dick — I  was  possessed  by  them." 
She  reflected  for  a  moment,  then  went  on  quickly. 
"Look  here,  if  you  were  so  fond  of  her,  I  should  like  you 
to  understand  how  it  was " 

"I  would  rather  not." 

Cherry  Ripe  took  no  notice.  "I  was  mad  about  Dick 
— mad — though  I  only  went  off  with  him  for  a  lark 
and  because  I  always  wanted  a  man  I  couldn't  get.  I 


Miss  Fingal  187 

never  cared  for  one  who  was  easy.  He  got  sick  of 
me  after  a  bit,  but  I  hung  on  like  grim  death — and  it's 
always  a  mistake  to  hang  on  to  a  man,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Miss  Fingal  answered,  shrinking  from 
her. 

Cherry  Ripe  saw  it.  "No,  I  shouldn't  think  you  did," 
she  said  with  compassionate  contempt.  "Well,  it  is. 
But  there  was  no  one  like  Dick  Alliston — if  you  didn't 
want  to  feel  deadly." 

"Did  you  never  care  for  any  one  else?" 

"There  were  lots  before  him  but  I  never  cared  for 
them,  except  for  the  first  one.  One  generally  goes  to 
the  devil  for  one  man,  and  learns  how  tc  pay  off  the 
rest.  There  was  something  about  Dicky  that  made  me 
want  him.  What  did  you  feel  about  him?" 

"I  never  saw  him." 

"Wait  till  you  do,  I  should  like  to  know " 

"We  won't  discuss  it."  Miss  Fingal  looked  at  the 
door  and  made  a  step  towards  it. 

"I  am  not  going  for  a  minute  or  two,  so  you  may  as 
well  sit  down,"  Cherry  Ripe  said  with  a  smile  on  the 
lips  that  had  been  reddened — just  a  little — by  art.  "It's 
no  good  getting  on  stilts  with  me,  I  haven't  meant  to 
be  a  beast — though  I  am  one,  I  know." 

"Do  you  love  him  still  ?" 

"Not  as  much  as  I  did.  You  see  there  have  been 
others  since.  I  made  myself  have  them  to  get  over  it, 
but  I  was  frantic  about  him  when  I  went  to  Linda,  mad 
to  get  him  back — just  mad." 

"She  couldn't  help  you  to  do  that — I  cannot  under- 
stand why  you  went  to  her." 

"I  heard  about  her  from  Albery  Wynne,  he  is  the 
brother  of  the  doctor  at  Leesbury.  He  looks  after  my 
throat  for  me.  He  told  me  it  was  all  up  with  her,  that 
she  was  going  to  die,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  would  give  any- 
thing in  the  world  to  get  hold  of  Dick's  children." 

"Dick's  children?"  Aline's  lips  went  white,  some- 
thing like  fury  seized  her. 

Cherry  Ripe  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  "What 
has  it  got  to  do  with  you?" 

"Nothing."     She   could   hardly  speak. 


1 88  Miss  Fingal 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I?"  There  was  a  pause;  then 
she  went  on,  "I  thought  Dick  would  want  them,  but  I 
knew  he  hadn't  money  enough  to  bring  them  up  as  he 
would  like.  I  can  makes  lots  and  I've  lots  put  by,  I've 
made  a  heap  out  of  rubber.  I  was  awfully  worried 
when  I  heard  about  Linda — in  case  she  had  fretted;  I 
thought  it  would  make  up  for  what  I  had  done  if  I  took 
the  children  and  gave  them  everything  I  had,  settled  it 
on  them — brought  them  up  properly " 

"You!" 

"I  told  her  all  I  would  do  for  them  if  she  would  say 
that  I  was  to  have  them,  that  I'd  take  care  they  didn't  go 
off  the  rails — I've  gone  off  them  scores  of  times,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  let  them.  If  she  had  given  them  to  me,  it 
would  have  seemed  like  getting  religion — been  my  salva- 
tion; and  his  too,  perhaps,  for  I  believe  I  could  have 
married  him  then — I  would  if  he  had  wanted  me — and 
the  children  would  have  kept  us  together." 

"I  think  it  must  have  been  your  visit  that  killed 
her." 

Cherry  Ripe  burst  into  tears,  they  trickled  down  her 
flushed  cheeks  like  a  sudden  shower.  "Oh,  don't  say 
that,  I  hate  now  to  think  I  went — it's  perfectly  awful 
what  one  will  do  for  a  man  if  one  cares.  I  asked  her  to 
forgive  me  before  I  left.  ...  I  don't  know  why  I  tell 
you  all  this,  but  you  remind  me  of  her  somehow. 
When  I  came  in,  I  felt  as  if  she  might  be  sitting  here, 
you  know — and  she  stood  by  the  piano  just  as  you  did 
when  I  went  into  the  room  at  the  farm.  Going  there 
was  a  wild  move,  of  course,  but  I  was  raving  mad  about 
Dick,  as  I've  told  you,  and  the  idea  of  getting  the  children 
came  suddenly  and  I  went  off  at  once  without  consider- 
ing— just  as  I  came  off  here  to-day.  I  always  do  things 
in  a  hurry.  It's  often  a  mistake.  I  wanted  the  children, 
as  well  as  him,  that  day  I  went  to  the  farm — I  wanted 
them  so  badly  I  believe  I  would  have  gone  to  hell,  and 
danced  in  it,  if  I  could  have  had  them  when  I  came  back." 
She  dabbed  away  her  tears  with  a  lace  handkerchief; 
Miss  Fingal  saw,  and  it  repelled  her,  that  the  eyes  had 
been  touched  up.  "It  isn't  that  I  care  for  anything  for 
very  long,  but  if  I  care  at  all,  I  care  so  awfully.  It's 


Miss  Fingal  189 

like  a  storm,  if  carries  me  right  away.  I'm  trying  hard 
to  get  over  it — we  women  are  fools,  aren't  we?" 

"You  say  you  cared  for  some  one  before  you  saw  him?" 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  be  here  at  all  if  I  hadn't.  That 
was  down  in  the  country.  It  was  through  him  that  I 
went  on  the  halls.  Cherry  Ripe  they  call  me." 

"Yes,  I  know,  and — that  man?" 

She  had  got  over  her  tears  and  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"He  ought  to  have  been  hanged  first  and  burnt  alive 
afterwards — do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?" 

"I  would  rather  if  you  didn't,"  Miss  Fingal  answered 
quickly,  "and  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me " 

"Don't  be  huffy,  this  visit  is  frightfully  interesting." 

Aline  felt  her  fascination  though  she  resented  it, 
and  hated  her.  "I  am  sorry—"  she  began,  "but — I 
must  ask  you — " 

"When  you  came  round  the  corner  on  that  stretcher 
at  Leesbury,  I  knew  I  had  to  see  you  again — I  felt  it  all 
along,  though  our  lives  are  pretty  different,  aren't  they? 
You  live  here  all  alone,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  live  alone  too  as  far  as  that  goes,  but  I  expect  it  is 
in  a  pretty  different  sort  of  way  from  yours.  What's 
queer  about  all  this  is  that  you  seem  to  have  been 
awfully  fond  of  Linda  Alliston  and  I've  been  awfully 
fond  of  Dick — I  believe  I  could  be  again — that's  why  I 
still  hanker  after  the  children.  If  I  had  them " 

"You  will  never  have  them!"  It  flashed  out  with 
a  vehemence  that  surprised  them  both. 

"Where  are  they?"  Cherry  Ripe  asked — a  sudden 
suspicion  taking  hold  of  her. 

"I  shall  not  tell  you !" 

"I  expect  they  are  still  at  Mentone;  they  were,  I 
know,  with  their  rotten  old  grandmother.  Dick  hated 
her,  though  he  never  talked  about  her,  nor  about  any  one 
else  belonging  to  him — that  is  one  of  men's  queer  ways — 
you  would  have  thought  they  were  saints  living  in  a 
church  and  other  people  not  good  enough  to  hear  about 
them." 

Aline  locked  her  hands  and  dumbly  prayed  that  she 
would  go;  as  if  she  knew,  Cherry  Ripe  said — 


190  Miss  Fingal 

"Well,  I'm  going  directly.  I've  been  taking  you  in 
while  I  have  been  talking.  The  life  you  live  here  is  just 
the  best  there  is — but  it's  deadly  dull  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  more  than  I  could  the  life  at  home  when 
I  was  there,  and  that  was  the  right  sort  too.  I've  got 
into  a  rotten  fashionable  set  now  and  can't  leave  it. 
I'm  in  for  it,  unless  I  get  hold  of  Dickie  again.  He 
only  looks  on  at  it,  and  hates  it  in  his  heart  as  I  do — 
and  I  wouldn't  mind  if  he  beat  me  with  sticks  every 
week.  Being  fond  of  a  man  and  getting  him — getting 
him,"  she  repeated,  "is  a  woman's  only  chance.  When 
you  get  it,  take  him  at  any  price.  I  give  you  that  for  a 
tip.  The  rest  is  only  dregs — and  as  for  the  people  who 
think  themselves  somebodies,  they  are  a  silly  selfish  lot 
— dregs  too." 

Aline  looked  at  her  with  a  confused  sense  that  she 
had  heard  this  before. 

"And  I'm  tired  of  them.  I  thought  them  fine  at 
first.  I  know  what  they  are  now.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  be 
off.  Come  and  hear  me  one  night,  and  when  you  do 
you  would  think  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  world  I 
couldn't  get;  and  Dick  is  about  the  only  one " 

"When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

"Seen  him  two  or  three  times,  but  not  to  be  of  any 
good — haven't  even  spoken  to  him  lately.  The  whole 
thing  flared  up  and  burnt  out  in  no  time  as  far  as  he 
was  concerned;  as  for  me,  I  am  a  fool — and  talking  of 
him  with  you  has  rubbed  it  into  me.  I  think  I  shall 
go  along  and  try  snatching  the  children  from  their 
grandmother,  though  sometimes  I  am  not  sure  if  I  want 
them — or  Dick  either.  Still,  you  know,  children  make 
such  a  change  in  one's  life— turn  it  upside-down — and 
that  would  be  something."  She  pulled  on  the  white 
gloves  she  had  taken  off  in  her  excitement  and  went  to 
the  door. 

It  was  opened  by  Stimson,  who  announced  Lord 
Stockton.  He  and  Cherry  Ripe  looked  at  each  other 
with  astonishment.  "Well !  this  is  a  surprise  for  us 
both,"  she  exclaimed. 

He  spoke  to  Miss  Fingal  before  he  answered — 

"I    certainly   didn't   expect   to   see   you."     He   moved 


Miss  Fingal  191 

his  head  about  and  looked  distressed;  his  long  figure 
swayed  a  little.  "I  thought  you  were  at  Hillside  witTi 
my  mother  till  the  end  of  the  week." 

"Couldn't  stand  it,  dear;  tried,  but  couldn't."  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  the  expression  of  a  naughty 
child.  "It  was  too  deadly  dull  for  this  one,  so  I 
managed  to  have  a  wire  sent  and  fled.  I  take  up  my 
turn  again  this  evening;  public  wouldn't  wait — wanted 
me.  No  more  respectability  of  your  sort  for  me,  thank 
you." 

He  flushed  with  annoyance.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said 
stiffly. 

"Not  your  fault,  of  course;  you  can't  stand  it  your- 
self, you  only  like  to  think  of  it — not  to  go  to  it.  Look 
here,  come  along  to  tea  at  my  flat  presently  and  we 
will  talk  it  out." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better — I'll  come  at  five,"  he  answered 
and  turned  away. 

"All  right.  Good-bye,  Miss  Fingal,  glad  you  are 
better." 

Stimson  at  his  severest  was  waiting  downstairs  to 
show  her  out.  As  she  went  over  the  doorstep  she  stopped 
and  smiled  at  him.  "You  didn't  ask  if  I  wanted  a 
taxi,"  she  said.  "I  haven't  got  my  car  to-day." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  he  smiled  back  at  her. 

"Well,  you  had  better  whistle."  He  held  up  his 
hand  to  a  loiterer  on  the  other  side  of  the  square,  and 
while  it  was  crossing  he  smiled  at  her  again.  "I  had 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  the  other  night,  miss,"  he 
said,  "and  hope  to  do  so  again — "  She  got  in,  he 
shut  the  door — it  was  a  closed  cab — and  looked  in  at  her 
through  the  open  window. 

"That's  all  right;  tell  him  Carlisle  Mansions,  Victoria 
Street.  They're  all  alike,"  she  said  as  she  drove  off. 
"I  hate  them.  My  God,  how  I  would  like  to  put  my 
heel  on  all  their  necks — all  but  Dick — and  I  believe  I 
would  like  to  kill  him  sometimes  and  bring  him  to  life 
again  on  some  island  we  had  all  to  ourselves." 

Lord  Stockton  advanced  awkwardly  when  he  had  shut 
the  door  on  Cherry  Ripe.  "I  must  apologise  for  this 


192  Miss  Fingal 

intrusion,  Miss  Fingal,"  he  said.  "I  am  the  bearer  of 
a  message  for  you  from  Lady  Gilston — I  was  glad  of  the 
excuse." 

She  pulled  herself  together.  "It  is  very  kind  of  you 
to  come.  I  know  that  you  called  to  ask  after  me  at 
Leesbury." 

"I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  your  accident,"  he  answered 
in  a  grave  sympathetic  voice,  and  put  his  head  on  one 
side  as  if  to  show  how  much  he  had  felt  it.  "I  hope  you 
are  quite  well  again." 

"Yes,  thank  you."  They  sat  down  and  politely  looked 
at  each  other.  "I  was  surprised  and  confused  at  seeing 
your  visitor  just  now.  I  thought  she  was  staying  with 
my  mother." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  unasked  question  on  her 
lips. 

"You  know  all  about  her,  of  course?"  he  asked.  "She 
is  really  a  beautiful  creature,  a  little  common;  but  that 
could  easily  be  rectified;  and  very  clever,  she  would 
easily  adapt  herself  to  better  surroundings.  She  was  led 
astray  by  a  scoundrel,  who  brought  her  to  London,  and 
she  suffered  a  great  deal,  but  now  she's  an  immense 
success  as  a  singer  and  dancer — all  the  young  men  fall 
in  love  with  her — and,  as  you  know,  it  is  a  fashion  to 
take  up  the  artistic  people  nowadays.  I  think  it  is  a 
good  thing  myself,"  he  added  in  his  best  moral  tone;  "it 
teaches  us  many  aspects  of  life  with  which  we  were 
unacquainted:  they  make  us  human." 

"Tell  me  more  about  her." 

"You  probably  know  the  rest.  She  got  hold  of 
Alliston  and  the  result  was  a  divorce  and  a  great 
deal  of  unhappiness.  You  went  to  see  her — Linda  I 
mean." 

"Yes,  but  only  at  Leesbury." 

"She  was  a  wonderful  creature,  I  was  devoted  to 
her — loved  her,"  he  added  simply.  His  tone  made  Aline 
like  him. 

"I  did  too,"  she  said. 

"She  was  quite  right  to  prefer  Alliston,  but  I'm  afraid 
I  don't  forgive  him  for  what  he  did."  They  were 
awkwardly  silent  for  a  minute.  "But  I'm  forgetting  the 


Miss  Fingal  193 

message  from  Lady  Gilston.  She  had  a  telegram  from 
Lady  Hester,  and  has  gone  to  Paris,  to  meet  her  and 
the  children." 

"Are  they  coming  to  England?"  she  asked  quickly. 
He  was  surprised  at  her  eagerness. 

"I  don't  know,  the  telegram  didn't  say.  I  was  there 
when  it  came,  and  Lady  Gilston  asked  me  if  I  would 
explain  that  she  was  reluctantly  obliged  to  put  off  the 
luncheon  party  for  to-morrow.  I  was  glad  to  have 
an  excuse  to  call  on  you — it  was  a  great  comfort  to 
hear  of  your  visits  to  Linda — Bertha  and  Jimmy  told 
me  of  them — I  wanted  to  thank  you,  if  I  might." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  gratefully  touched  hers. 

"And  the  children  are  in  Paris?" 

"They  are,  or  they  will  be  in  a  day  or  two.  Lady 
Gilston  crosses  to-night." 

"They  will  be  quite  safe  if  she  is  there?"  it  was  said 
half  to  herself. 

"Quite;  but  why  do  you  ask?" 

"Miss  Repton  spoke  of  them." 

"She  paid  Linda  a  disastrous  visit  and  offered  to 
adopt  them  in  case  anything  happened  to  her,"  he  said, 
"an  extraordinary,  preposterous  thing  to  do.  But  she 
did  it  in  good  faith;  she  is  an  astonishing  mixture. 
You  heard  what  she  said  about  leaving  my  mother,  who 
very  kindly  asked  her,  at  my  request,  to  stay  a  week — she 
stayed  three  days."  He  was  evidently  annoyed. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  her." 

"She  interests  me,"  he  answered,  and  flushed  again. 
His  eyes  wandered  towards  the  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece. "She  was  good  enough  to  ask  me  to  tea  at  her  flat. 
I  think  I  must  go,  and  find  out  what  the  catastrophe  has 
been,  now  that  I  have  duly  delivered  the  message  I  was 
bidden  to  give  you." 

He  got  up  and  awkwardly  lingered.  "Would  you  let 
me  come  and  see  you  again,"  he  asked,  "or  at  the  cottage 
if  you  are  there?  I  went  to  it  a  good  deal — before 
Linda's  marriage." 

He  held  her  hand  again  a  little  longer  than  was  neces- 
sary; he  was  a  good  deal  embarrassed.  "I  want  to  beg 
you  not  to  judge  Miss  Repton  too  harshly,"  he  said, 


194  Miss  Fingal 

"she  is  not  much  more  than  a  girl  still  and  she  was  led 
astray — she  was  not  strong  enough  to  resist — every 
charming  woman  is  weak  and  vain,"  he  added  with 
what  Cherry  Ripe  called  his  saintly  smile. 
"If  only  she  will  leave  the  children  alone!" 
"She  will,"  he  answered.  "I'll  see  to  it  for  you." 
"Why  for  me?"  she  thought  when  he  had  gone. 
"Why  for  me?"  The  question  asked  by  herself  seemed 
to  find  its  answer  in  herself  as  if  she  had  looked  down 
to  the  inner  recesses  of  her  heart — and  its  dweller. 
"But  if  Dick  wants  them — and  for  her?"  Mr.  Bendish 
had  told  her  a  few  days  ago  that  since  their  mother  was 
dead  it  was  legally  possible  for  the  father  to  claim  and 
recover  his  children  if  he  were  not  leading  an  immoral 
life.  "But  he  wouldn't  be  so  cruel  as  to  give  them  to 
her?"  she  cried. 


VI. 


LORD  STOCKTON  walked  to  Cherry  Ripe's  flat.  He  felt 
angry  when  he  started.  Anything  concerning  Linda 
Alliston  still  had  power  to  stir  him:  he  was  astounded 
at  Cissie  Repton's  visit  to  Leesbury,  and  the  idea  that 
she  might  adopt  or  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
children  seemed  to  him  downright  indecent.  He 
wondered  if  Alliston  had  suggested  it,  if  she  had  seen 
him,  but  he  remembered  that  Jimmy  Gilston  told  him 
that  they  had  drifted  apart  months  ago,  and  Cherry 
Ripe's  manner — he  had  seen  her  pretty  frequently  of 
late  on  different  pretexts — betrayed  no  signs  of  senti- 
mental remembrance.  Then,  for  he  was  a  man  of 
generous  judgments  and  there  was  sweetness  in  his 
nature,  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  she  wanted  to 
make  reparation  for  what  she  had  done  by  devotion  to 
the  children,  by  endowing  them  with  what  she  possessed, 
and  making  their  lives  easy  and  luxurious.  It  was 
absurd  of  her,  of  course,  but  it  was  pathetic  and  made 
her  charming  in  his  eyes.  He  knew  her  impulsiveness, 
her  daring,  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  she  would  imagine, 
and  recklessly  try  to  pull  off;  he  was  pleased  with  his 
own  astuteness,  his  knowledge  of  womankind  as  he 
thought  it,  in  divining  this  solution  of  an  amazing  in- 
cident: he  quickened  his  pace  with  mild  elation. 

He  thought  of  his  house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  he  was 
going  back  there  presently;  and  as  he  walked  on  he 
considered  in  detail  the  possibilities  of  its  different 
rooms,  conscious  the  while  of  a  pleasant  emotion  that 
softly  stole  upon  him.  Passion  had  no  place  in  him; 
but  he  had  tenderness  and  a  speculative  quality  that 
accounted  for  many  of  his  experiments  with  human 

195 


196  Miss  Fingal 

nature,  and,  together  with  a  gentle  persistence,  helped 
him  through  many  somewhat  surprising  adventures 
while  his  temperament  effectually  damped  down  any  fire 
— and  danger — that  might  have  been  in  them.  He  was 
almost  excited  when  he  arrived  at  the  highly-varnished 
front  door  of  the  flat  and  exercised,  with  an  unwonted 
vigour,  the  brass  serpent  that  served  as  a  knocker. 
"Miss  Repton?"  He  entered  with  an  assured  step. 

Cherry  Ripe  had  put  herself  into  a  grey  chiffon  tea- 
gown,  a  pale  ribbon  wandered  about  it,  and  angel 
sleeves  fell  back  to  show  the  arms  which  infatuated  young 
sculptors,  who  watched  her  from  the  stalls,  had  modelled 
and  beautified  from  memory.  A  gold  cross  on  a  thin 
gold  chain  was  round  her  neck;  a  petulant  foot  made 
visible  a  grey  suede  shoe  with  a  diamond  buckle.  Her 
loosened  hair  was  twisted  about  her  head,  and  her 
complexion  looked  fresh  and  natural  in  the  carefully 
shaded  room. 

He  glanced  at  the  open  window  as  he  entered:  the 
sun-blinds  outside,  the  muslin  and  silk  and  tall  palms 
within,  waylaid  such  cool  air  as  there  was,  and  the 
scent  of  flowers  was  almost  oppressive.  She  was  sitting 
in  an  old-fashioned  arm-chair,  resting  her  head  against 
its  high  back;  in  front  of  her  on  a  low  oriental  -table 
was  a  brass  tray  on  which  tea  had  been  arranged  and 
cigarettes  put  ready.  Her  whole  setting  was  effective, 
she  knew  it  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  He  looked 
at  her  with  a  soft  smile  of  admiration. 

"You  make  me  think  of  a  Greuze,"  he  said. 

"What's  that?" 

"It  is  what  you  are  like."  He  smiled  again  and  sat 
down  almost  facing  her,  as  if  not  to  lose  the  contem- 
plation of  the  picture  she  made.  "Now  tell  me  why  you 
hurried  away  from  Hillside.  I  hope  they  were  kind 
to  you?" 

"They  were  kind  enough,  but  I  was  bored." 

"Bored?" 

"Bored,  dear.    Did  you  ever  see  Mrs.  Tanqueray?" 

"Yes,  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"I  felt  like  her  when  I  was  there.  If  you  had  even 
come  yourself " 


Miss  Fingal  197 

"I  wanted  you  to  be  with  them  alone." 

She  poured  out  some  tea.  "It  was  deadly."  She 
looked  at  him,  as  if  to  soften  her  words.  "Have  some 
orange  cake.  .  .  .  You  see  you're  your  sort  now,  and 
they  are  their  sort — as  you'll  be  by-and-by — and  I'm 
another  sort,  and  it's  no  good,  I  can't  help  it,  roots 
stick  to  one  though  one  gets  up  as  far  as  one  can  above 
them:  besides,  I  hate  the  country." 

"You  used  to  live  in  the  country." 

"I  know,  but  I  always  wanted  to  get  away  from  it. 
I  love  to  go  over  it  in  my  thoughts,  and  think  I  long 
to  be  back  there;  but  I  shouldn't  like  it.  That  cottage 
I  sing  about  was  ours — Harold  Litton  wrote  it  for 
me."  She  leant  back  and  looked  picturesque,  almost 
beautiful,  but  her  accent  grated  on  him — to  his  worry- 
ing regret.  "We  had  a  garden,  and  you  should  have 
seen  our  strawberries,  and  mother  gathering  them, 
much  better  than  the  orchids  in  your  conservatory  at 
Hillside.  The  smell  of  the  strawberries  at  dessert  two 
nights  ago  finished  me  up  I  think — took  me  home — 
funny,  isn't  it?  Dick  Alliston  used  to  say" — she  hesi- 
tated; in  her  voice,  and  her  listener  was  conscious  of  it, 
there  was  a  suggestion  of  resentment  and  yet  of  passion 
— "he  used  to  say,"  she  repeated,  "sounds  and  smells 
and  lots  of  things  had  worlds  of  their  own  and  careered 
about  in  them.  I  understood  what  he  meant  when  I 
heard  those  church  bells  of  yours  on  Sunday,  I  could 
have  cried — and  the  strawberries  did  the  rest." 

"You've  eaten  some  a  good  many  times  lately — the 
other  night  at  the  Savoy?" 

"That's  different — it  was  the  country  and  looking 
out  on  a  garden." 

"It  shows  how  simple  you  are  at  heart,"  he  said,  and 
tenderness  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Not  a  bit,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  once  been  in  heaven 
and  left  it " 


"I'll  take  you  back- 


Til  never  get  back  and  couldn't  bear  it  if  I  did — 
it  would  be  too  deadly  dull.  Don't  you  understand 
how  one  changes,"  she  burst  out,  "and  yet  keeps  on 
loving  things  one  doesn't  want  and  couldn't  do  with 


198  Miss  Fingal 

again?  .  .  .  They  were  awfully  kind — your  mother  and 
sister,  but  I  thought  the  hours  would  never  go,  they 
were  so  long.  I  counted  the  minutes,  they  seemed  to 
stretch  out  on  purpose,  one  minute  after  the  other  to 
all  the  sixty  seconds — I'd  forgotten  how  many  they  had 
till  I  was  there  and  counted  them.  As  for  drives  along 
country  lanes  with  no  one  to  look  at  you,  waste  of  good 
clothes  I  call  it,  and  walks — I  can't  bear  walks,  unless 
it  is  with  a  boy  I  like,  and  his  arm  is  round  me."  She 
turned  a  radiant  smile  on  him. 

His  colour  came.  "I  would  have  put  my  arm  round 
you  if  I  had  been  there." 

"Hark  the  herald  angels  sing!  Not  your  line,  Teddy. 
As  for  dinner,  oh,  my  Lordy!"  she  laughed,  "and  that 
butler  and  his  grey  head,  and  the  footmen  and  their  thin 
shoulders,  and  the  silver  things  on  the  table,  and  the 
food,  all  those  courses " 

"You  have  them  at  a  restaurant  and  other 
places " 

"It's  different,"  she  said  impatiently.  "There,  in  the 
country,  with  the  stillness  all  round  and  the  scent  of 
all  those  flower-beds — it  made  me  think  of  supper  at 
home  long  ago,  out  in  the  garden  this  weather — table 
at  the  back  door,  bread  and  cheese  and  beer — I  should 
love  a  long  drink  of  beer  with  the  froth  on."  She  threw 
up  her  arms  and  gave  a  little  cry;  then  suddenly — 
"Have  some  more  tea,  Teddy." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Well  then,  cigarettes."  She  lighted  one  for  herself 
and  held  the  match  out  to  him.  He  took  it  and,  as  if 
he  thought  better  of  it,  put  it  and  the  cigarette  down  on 
the  tray.  "And  after  dinner,"  she  went  on,  "we  sat  in 
that  great  drawing-room,  trying  to  think  of  things  to  say, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  nine  o'clock  would  never  strike — and 
when  it  did,  there  was  ten  to  wait  for,  and  when  at  last 
that  struck,  we  got  up  and  went  to  bed,  just  when  things 
were  beginning  to  wake  up  in  London — I  could  have 
screamed  when  I  remembered  it.  While  we  sat  there, 
they  said  things  they  thought  might  be  good  for  me 
and  I  said  things  that  I  thought  might  make  them  sit 
up — couldn't  help  it." 


Miss  Fingal  199 

"Why  didn't  you  sing  to  them?" 

"I  did.     I  don't  think  they  cared  about  it." 

"What  did  you  sing?" 

"Never  mind — they  weren't  pleased;  but  it  did  them 
good."  She  laughed  and  looked  at  the  tip  of  her 
cigarette  just  as  Bertha  did  when  she  was  considering 
something.  "They  thought  it  vulgar.  I  like  being 
vulgar  among  that  sort,  I  know  then  that  I  am  myself 
and  not  my  frills — some  women  are  only  their  frills  and 
haven't  any  selves  left — and  they  get  to  like  your  sort." 
She  stopped  for  a  moment.  "It's  no  good  trying  to 
make  me  better  and  all  that,  I'm  not  the  kind."  Her 
face  was  suddenly  careworn.  "Sometimes  I  wish  I  was 
dead  and  done  with  it — unless  there's  more  going  on 
after;  I  don't  want  any  more,  I'm  fed  up  with  this 
life." 

He  put  out  his  hand.  "I  should  like  to  take  you 
away — from  everything,"  he  said  gently. 

"Don't  want  to  go — or  anything  different." 

"There  is  so  much  in  you.  I  feel  that  you  want  caring 
for — loving,"  he  brought  it  out  with  a  jerk.  He  leant 
forward  and  put  his  hands  on  hers. 

"I  say,  Teddy,  you  are  going  it,"  she  said  with  an 
uneasy  laugh — "I  don't  mind,  I'm  used  to  it;  but  what 
about  the  Girton  girl?" 

"She  has  nothing  to  do  with  it."  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  "that  is  all  over — I  want  you — to  marry  you 
and  take  you  away;  round  the  world  if  you  like,  away 
from  everything  that  has  been  a  mistake  in  your  life,  and 
to  bring  you  back " 

"You  can  bet  you'd  bring  me  back,"  and  then  a  little 
huskily — "Oh,  my  little  sister  Ann,  I  wonder  what  put 
this  into  your  head.  You  began  by  preaching,  you 
know;  you  seem  tired  of  that — and  now  as  I  live, 
Teddy,  you  are  asking  me  to  marry  you,  aren't  you?" 

He  nodded  and  bent  his  head  to  kiss  her  hands.  His 
breathing  came  quickly — he  had  said  it,  risked  it,  dared 
it,  and  waited  for  her  answer  with  a  choking  in  his  throat 
that  made  him  dumb. 

She  threw  her  cigarette  into  the  fireplace  among  the 
flowers. 


200  Miss  Fingal 

"  'Another  music-hall  actress  marries  a  peer/  in  big 
letters,  eh?  It  wouldn't  do,  Teddy,  I've  been  about  too 
much  in  London  and  lost  the  taste  for  it — and  seen  your 
home — seen  the  other  end  of  your  world.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  so  just  now?  I'd  like  to  marry  you  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing,  to  hear  what  they'd  say,  know  I  was  a  peeress, 
and  all  that,  but  it  doesn't  glitter  any  more.  I'd  get 
used  to  it  in  six  months  and  be  bored  stiff.  And  as  for 
going  down  to  that  big  house  and  living  the  life  your 
people  live,  and  you'd  want  me  to  live  it,  no  thank  you, 
I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"Not  with  my  love — my  care?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No.  It  isn't  as  if — I'm  fond 
of  you  in  a  way,  but  I'm  not  gone  on  you  as  I  was  on 
Dick;  I  would  have  walked  to  the  workhouse  with  him 
or  sailed  to  the  leper  island,  wherever  it  is,  if  he  had 
wanted  me,  at  one  time — but  that's  over." 

"You  can't  go  on  living  as  you  are — you'll  have  to 
marry." 

"Yes,  I  expect  I'll  marry,  but  I'll  marry  in  the  pro- 
fession. I'm  in  it,  it's  my  sort,  the  sort  I've  become  and 
I'm  going  to  keep  to  it.  It  has  life — heaped  up.  I  dare 
say  he'll  be  all  right  at  first,  whoever  he  is,  and  then 
we'll  quarrel,  and  one  of  us  will  divorce  the  other — that 
gives  a  chance  for  a  change.  Men  don't  do  after  they 
have  got  used  to  you,  they  get  deadly  dull  or  they  are 
brutal;  but  it's  so  easy  to  take  on  or  put  off  in  my  set, 
and  there  isn't  the  fuss  about  it  there  is  in  yours.  I  can 
get  all  the  money  I  want.  A  big  house  would  only  be  a 
worry.  I  can't  even  bear  this  big  flat,  I  want  a  little 
one,  then  one  can  change  about  and  there's  not  much 
trouble.  As  for  clothes  and  things,  they  come  easy — we 
can  always  get  them." 

"And  you  won't  consider — "  There  was  relief  as  well 
as  disappointment  in  his  voice. 

"No,  I  won't  consider,  dearie.  Wonder  what  people 
would  say  if  they  knew  I'd  chucked  you?" 

"Do  you  want  to  tell  them?" 

"No,  and  they  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  did,  so  you  are 
on  the  safe  side.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  and  then  he  asked — 


Miss  Fingal  201 

"Why  did  you  go  to  Miss  Fingal  to-day  and  frighten 
her  about  Alliston's  children?" 

"Why  should  she  be  frightened  about  them?" 

"Why  did  you  go?"  he  persisted. 

"Look  here,  I  told  you  about  that  before — when  you 
worried  me — I  went — well,  because  I  went  to  Leesbury." 

"Do  you  care  for  him  still?" 

"I  don't  know,  Teddy,  on  my  life,  I  don't  know.  I 
expect  the  children  would  be  awfully  in  the  way  if  I  got 
them." 

"They  would,  and  of  course  you  will  not  get  them;  it 
would  be  preposterous." 

"Class  feeling,"  a  gust  of  temper  passed  over  her — 
"you  think  I'm  not  fit  for  them.  You're  old-fashioned, 
though  you  try  hard  to  get  over  it." 

He  fidgeted  his  head  about.  He  was  angry  with  her, 
he  could  not  help  it.  "Why  did  you  want  them?"  he 
repeated. 

"It  was  just  an  idea,  it's  the  only  thing  that  would 
make  a  difference  in  me  perhaps,  set  me  going  on  a 
straight  path  as  you  would  call  it,  and  all  that,"  she 
answered  with  a  cynical  laugh. 

"You  might  have  children  of  your  own  if  you  did  what 
I  proposed." 

"No — I  can't,"  she  snapped,  "leave  me  alone.  I  was 
a  fool  and  worse  about  that.  You'd  never  have  a  child  if 
you  married  me." 

He  stared  at  her,  then  away  from  her  and  round  the 
room.  "It's  all  hopeless,"  he  said,  "for  us  both." 

"I  expect  it  is,  but  I  don't  mind.  I  take  life  as  it 
comes,  and  get  a  good  deal  out  of  it." 

"What  do  you  suppose  will  be  the  end?" 

The  question  and  his  earnestness  amused  her;  she 
wagged  her  pretty  foot.  "I  dunno,  Teddy,  haven't 
thought  about  that.  You  mean  when  I'm  old?  I 
expect  I'll  dry  up  right  down  to  the  roots,  and  go  and 
live  with  a  relation  or  something  like  that:  they'll  be 
roots  too  and  we'll  mix.  It  isn't  worth  thinking  about, 
waste  of  words,  waste  of  thinking.  And  look  here,  you'd 
better  depart,  I  must  get  a  sleep  before  I  go  on  to-night, 
or  I  shan't  get  a  round.  Thank  you  for  asking  me  to 


2O2  Miss  Fingal 

marry  you,  sorry  I  can't  oblige.  And  you  needn't  encore 
your  offer,  it  wouldn't  be  any  good.  Good-bye."  She 
held  up  her  hand.  "Would  you  like  to  kiss  me  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  second,  then  stooped  and  kissed  her 
cheek. 

"He's  an  awful  ass,"  she  said  to  herself  when  he  had 
gone,  "but  I'm  rather  fond  of  him.  .  .  .  Lydia,"  she 
called.  The  old  servant  came  in  with  a  waddling  walk. 
"Come  and  clear  away.  I  say,  Lyddy,  Lord  Stockton 
asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"What  did  you  say,  dear?" 

"Said  I  wouldn't." 

Lydia  gave  a  grunt.  "Just  as  well ;  you  wouldn't  stick 
to  him,  and  there'd  only  be  a  fuss — you  don't  care  for 
him  much?" 

"Worst  of  it  is  I'll  never  care  about  any  one  much 
again.  I've  done  that  sort  of  thing  twice,  but  one  can't 
go  on." 

"Well,  you'll  care  for  something  else — your  money 
which  will  make  you  comfortable ;  or  your  work." 

"Work!  What's  the  good  of  my  work?  It  doesn't 
count,  besides  it  only  lasts  a  little  while  and  away  it  goes 
to  some  one  else " 

"If  it  leaves  money  behind  it  doesn't  matter." 

But  Cherry  Ripe  answered  nothing.  She  stood  looking 
out  under  the  sun-blindv  towards  Westminster  Cathedral. 
"Wonder  if  church  is  any  good?"  she  thought  presently, 
"don't  believe  it  is — nothing  is,  except  the  man  you 
want.  I  told  Miss  Fingal  that — wonder  what  she 
thought;  she'll  never  get  a  man  at  all  I  should  say: 
unless  it's  some  one  who  wants  her  money." 


VII. 

FOR  a  day  or  two  Aline  could  think  of  nothing  but 
Cherry  Ripe's  visit;  but  now  always  there  was  in  her 
heart — and  before  it  everything  else  fell  away — a  vision 
of  Linda's  children.  With  it  came  a  suggestion  she 
hardly  recognised  to  herself,  but  it  was  always  there  and 
most  insistent  when  she  struggled  to  avoid  it. 

Gradually  too,  almost  as  a  reproach,  she  felt  that  the 
Bedford  Square  house  was  very  large.  There  were  so 
many  rooms,  so  many  things  in  them,  there  was  so  much 
comfort  and  even  luxury,  it  seemed  preposterous  that 
she  should  monopolise  it  all.  .  .  .  And  there  was  the 
cottage,  that  too  was  empty — it  was  not  surely  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  these  two  houses  should  be  meant 
for  her  to  live  in  alone — she  was  only  in  charge  of  them, 
a  custodian  put  in  to  make  ready,  to  be  ready  herself? 
She  had  done  an  unseen  bidding.  At  the  cottage  the 
flowers  were  blooming,  the  fruit  was  ripe,  the  sun  shin- 
ing, and  everything  seemed  to  be  waiting.  .  .  .  The 
meaning  of  it  as  yet  was  hidden,  but  there  stole  in  upon 
her  a  strange  secret  happiness. 

And  here  in  Bedford  Square  it  was  the  same.  The 
house  was  swept  and  garnished  and  freshened.  The 
new  old  furniture  that  Mrs.  Bendish  and  Bertha  had 
discovered  and  bought  for  her,  seemed  only  to  remember 
lives  that  had  been  dignified  or  beautiful,  there  were 
always  masses  of  flowers  about,  and  sunshine  invaded 
the  rooms. 

Cherry  Ripe's  visit  disturbed  her,  frightened  her;  but 
after  a  time  she  shook  off  its  effects.  Bertha  and  Jimmy, 
for  she  gave  them  a  tremulous  almost  excited  account 
of  it,  scouted  the  idea  that  Dick  Alliston  would  allow 

203 


2O4  Miss  Fingal 

the  woman  who  had  brought  about  Linda's  unhappiness 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  his  children ;  they  treated  the 
whole  incident  as  a  mad  interlude,  a  preposterous  doing, 
that  was  not  likely  to  affect  any  other  human  being. 

Jimmy  Gilston  was  quite  taken  aback  by  the  change 
in  her.  "She's  alive,  set  going,  and  really  pleasant  com- 
pany," he  thought,  and  told  her,  in  his  moderate  way, 
that  he  greatly  approved  of  the  alterations.  "You  have 
got  rid  of  so  many  objectionable  things,  that  I  absolve 
you  from  burning  the  rest  and  burying  the  servants." 
After  that  he  became  a  frequent  visitor.  He  insisted  one 
day  on  taking  her  to  lunch  at  a  restaurant — he  liked 
restaurants.  "We'll  go  to  the  Savoy,"  he  said.  "It 
may  amuse  you,  the  food  is  excellent,  and  the  people 
mostly  vulgar;  still  it  would  be  worse  the  other  way 
round  for  you  would  get  indigestion  and  be  dull  into 
the  bargain — besides,  you  may  see  Miss  Cissie 
Repton " 

But  this  frightened  her.  "Oh  no,"  she  said.  "Don't 
take  me  there — I  want  never  to  see  her  again." 

"Then  you  shan't."  Jimmy  was  always  sympathetic. 
"We  will  go  to  the  Ritz;  it  thinks  an  immense  deal 
of  itself,  is  a  little  too  conscious  of  its  magnificence — but 
we'll  go  there."  It  occurred  to  him  that  the  bill  would 
not  be  a  pleasing  sight,  but  Jimmy  was  a  courageous 
creature,  and  never  worried  over  trifles,  especially  before 
a  woman.  Gradually  he  became  fond  of  her — it  could 
hardly  be  called  falling  in  love,  that  was  not  Jimmy's 
way;  but  she  interested  him  and  pleased  some  old- 
fashioned  theory  lying  dormant  in  him  that  women 
should  DC  feminine  and  soft-voiced,  and  not  too  clever 
or  too  self-helpful.  He  had  liked  her  the  night  he  met 
her  first  at  the  Bendish  dinner,  though  he  had  called 
her  a  poor  little  stick-in-the-mud ;  her  simplicity  and 
manner  had  almost  won  him  at  Leesbury:  and  the 
change  in  her  after  the  railway  accident  completed  the 
conquest  of  him,  if  it  could  be  called  one.  "If  she 
would  have  had  me,  and  I  had  not  been  a  consolidated 
fool,  I  believe  I  could  have  married  her  and  been  con- 
tent," he  thought,  condescendingly  and  rather  amused 
at  himself;  "now,  of  course,  it  is  impossible,  I  am  not 


Miss  Fingal  205 

going  to  marry  a  woman  who  has  more  money  than  I 
have,  and  if  I  would  she  wouldn't  look  at  me.  Luckily 
I  am  not  sentimental  and  can  do  without  that  sort  of 
thing;  and  there's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be  good 
friends.  I  may  be  useful  to  her,  and  it  will  amuse  me 
to  look  after  her  a  bit."  This  being  his  point  of  view, 
he  found  it  pleasant  to  linger  in  her  drawing-room,  to 
let  her  play  to  him  sometimes — she  had  developed  a 
charming  touch — to  lunch  or  dine  with  her — he  dis- 
covered that  Mrs.  Turner  was  an  excellent  cook — or  to 
take  her  to  places  of  which,  he  assured  her,  a  knowledge 
was  necessary  to  her  social  education.  The  worst  of  it 
was  that  the  sundry  feasts  and  expeditions,  that  he 
thoroughly  enjoyed  and  for  which  she  was  the  excuse, 
occasionally  exceeded  his  capacity  to  pay  for  them. 
He  realised  this  when  the  visit  to  the  opera  which  Miss 
Fingal  had  projected  took  place.  It  was  hurried  on 
so  that  Bertha  might  be  of  the  party  the  night  before 
she  went  to  the  country.  She  and  Jimmy  and  Mrs. 
Bendish,  who  had  been  invited  to  make  a  fourth,  dined 
with  Miss  Fingal,  and  the  car — the  new  car  in  which 
she  delighted — conveyed  them  to  Covent  Garden. 
Jimmy  insisted  on  inviting  them  to  supper  with  him  at 
the  Carlton  afterwards.  This  brought  him  up  against 
the  fact  that  his  resources  were  exhausted  and  that  the 
basket  on  the  roll-top  table  in  his  sitting-room  still  held 
a  batch  of  unpaid  bills,  though  he  had  been  doing  his 
best  to  reduce  their  number.  Luckily  Sir  James,  who 
was  going  to  fetch  his  wife  from  Paris,  had  not  yet 
started,  so  with  a  spice  of  amusement  and  some  trepi- 
dation, Jimmy  took  himself  to  his  father's  office — he 
always  went  to  the  office  on  these  occasions — and  deter- 
mined that  while  he  was  about  it  he  would  ask  for 
a  thumping  sum. 

Sir  James  shied  and  stroked  his  nose,  nearly  pulled 
it  in  his  anger.  "You  have  an  excellent  allowance," 
he  said,  "and  it's  only  a  few  months  ago  that  I  gave 
you  a  large  cheque  to  go  abroad  with  your  sister.  You 
came  back  much  sooner  than  you  were  expected  on 
account  of  Linda  Alliston.  You  couldn't  have  spent  all 
I  gave  you — what  became  of  it? 


206  Miss  Fingal 

"I  wasted  it  paying  an  old  Oxford  debt."  He  sat 
facing  his  father  and  tried  not  to  feel  amused. 

"You  disgraced  yourself  there.  I  tried  to  make  a 
gentleman  of  you." 

"Too  early  in  the  family  history.  You  should  have 
been  content  to  put  me  on  the  money-making 
track " 

"I  sent  you  to  a  public  school  and  to  Oxford,  so  that 
you  might  associate  with  gentlemen." 

"Worst  of  it  was  that  they  would  not  associate  with 
me.  I  got  into  the  wrong  set  because  the  right  one 
wouldn't  have  me:  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Alliston,  I 
should  have  gone  altogether  to  the  devil;  as  it  was, 
I  only  hung  about  the  front  door.  You  should  have 
known  better,"  Jimmy  leant  back  and  smiled  benevo- 
lently, "for  you  are  very  clever,  Pater,  I  don't  wonder 
they  knighted  you." 

"I  deserved  it,"  Sir  James  answered  with  snorting 
conviction.  "I  made  this  business.  I  spent  ^100,000 
in  advertising  and  gave  £60,000  last  year  to  five  of  the 
best-known  public  Institutions." 

"If  you  had  taken  my  advice " 

"Your  advice,  sir,  about  what?" 

"About  the  £60,000  to  prominent  Institutions.  You 
spread  it  out  too  thin;  you  should  have  plumped  it 
down  on  one,  piled  it  up.  It  would  have  made  more 
stir — then  you  might  have  got  a  baronetcy.  Any  one 
can  get  a  knighthood." 

Sir  James  was  rather  struck.  "Perhaps  you  are 
right,  it  might  have  been  better  if  I  had  given  it 
to  one,  the  press  would  have  taken  more  notice 
of  it.  To  come  back  to  you,  sir,  what  is  it  you 
want?" 

"Well,"  Jimmy  answered  slowly,  "1  might  make  six 
hundred  do." 

"Six  hundred!    You  must  be  out  of  your  mind." 

"If  they  offer  to  make  you  a  baronet,  you  will  have  to 
settle  a  good  round  sum  on  me,  or  you  won't  get  it. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  do — with  the  next  batch  of 
corruptibles." 

"What  do  you  want  six  hundred  for?" 


Miss  Fingal  207 

"To  spend,"  Jimmy  said  innocently.  "What  does 
any  one  want  money  for  except  to  spend?" 

Sir  James  got  up  in  despair  and  then  sat  down  again. 
"Spend !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Look  here,  my  dear  Pater,  I've  been  a  rotter  and 
I  know  it.  I  am  trying  to  work  now,  but  I'm  not  much 
good " 

"I  did  everything  I  could  for  you." 

"I  know,  dear  old  chap,  you  did  far  too  much.  Pub- 
lic school  and  Oxford  only  put  on  a  little  veneer  that 
soon  rubbed  off.  I  wasn't  the  real  thing  for  that  jour- 
ney. We  are  nobodies,  and  yet  we  are  the  most  im- 
portant people  on  earth  to-day  because  we  are  workers. 
At  least,  you've  been  one,  and  perhaps  I  shall  be  one,  if 
I  ever  come  to  my  senses.  You  should  have  sent  me  to 
a  cheap  commercial  school,  that  was  my  due,  then 
brought  me  here  as  office  boy;  I  might  have  been  Lord 
Mayor  in  time  perhaps,  and  the  firm  would  have  been 
Gilston  &  Son  instead  of  Gilston  &  Co.  What's  the 
good  of  a  Co.?  Any  one  can  get  a  Co.,  but  a  son  has  to 
be  begotten  in  lawful  wedlock  if  he  is  to  walk  about  the 
city  and  be  respectable." 

"I  expect  you  to  go  to  the  Bar,"  Sir  James  said 
ruefully. 

"Well,  I'm  struggling,  but  I  shan't  get  through." 

"You  might  have  tried   for  the  Church " 

"The  devil  is  much  too  fond  of  me.  I  shouldn't  have 
minded  being  a  soldier.  I  shall  be  one  if  there's  a  war; 
Alliston  says  there  will  be,  one  morning  when  we  least 
expect  it." 

"Alliston  is  an  ass." 

"An  ass  is  sometimes  a  wise  beast — Scriptural 
authority." 

"What  do  you  want  to  spend  this  money  on?" 

"I  want  to  pay  up  the  rest  of  my  debts,  wipe  them 
out  with  part  of  it,  and  with  the  rest  I  want  to — "  he 
hesitated  on  purpose. 

"To  what?" 

"Well — to  fling  about  a  bit  with  a  woman." 

Sir  James  stood  up,  choking  with  rage.  "Who  is 
she,  sir?" 


208  Miss  Fingal 

"Rather  a  nice  little  female — Miss  Fingal." 

He  sat  down  quickly  again  and  smiled.  "Oh,  well,  if 
that's  it,  I  don't  mind.  You  couldn't  do  better  than 
marry  her." 

"I  shan't  ask  her." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I'm  certain  she  wouldn't  have  me,  and  it 
would  make  relations  rather  strained  afterwards.  Be- 
sides, I  shouldn't  like  to  marry  a  woman  with  money." 

"I'd  make  things  thoroughly  comfortable  for  you,  my 
boy." 

"Awfully  good  of  you,  Pater,  but  I  haven't  the  ghost 
of  a  chance,  and  I'm  not  going  to  take  any  risks." 

"I  don't  mind  doing  something  for  you  now — though 
I  think  you  should  be  able  to  spend  some  money  on  her 
without  coming  to  me."  Sir  James  was  visibly  relent- 
ing: he  had  no  belief  in  a  young  man  not  trying  to  get 
a  young  woman  he  liked,  and  a  fixed  conviction  that 
every  woman  wanted  to  be  married. 

"I  shan't  come  again,"  Jimmy  answered,  "but  I 
want  to  feel  easy  about  things,  and  when  I  have  paid  off 
a  few  bills — there  are  not  many  left — I  shall  have  a  clean 
slate." 

There  was  a  good-natured  grunt  of  approval. 

"And  to-night — which  is  really  why  I  have  come  to 
you — I  have  offered  to  give  a  supper  at  the  Carlton. 
Miss  Fingal  is  taking  Mrs.  Bendish,  Bertha,  and  myself 
to  the  opera.  We  dine  with  her  first;  the  least  I  can 
do  is  to  invite  her  to  supper  afterwards;  and  it  wouldn't 
do  for  two  young  and  tender  things,  as  she  and  I  are, 
to  go  alone." 

At  which  Sir  James  laughed  and  thought  what  a  witty 
dog  Jimmy  was.  "And  so  you  are  taking  Mrs.  Bendish 
and  Bertha  too,  eh?  Well,  look  here,  you  shall  have 
the  cheque — and  I'll  give  the  supper  at  the  Carlton.  I 
suppose  you  won't  object  to  that,  or  mind  if  I  come  too? 
I'll  telephone  for  a  round  table  and  ask  Bendish  to  join 
us;  it  will  be  only  fair  as  his  wife  is  going  to  the 
opera." 

"One  to  you,  Pater;  you  are  a  brick.  Tell  them  to 
make  the  food  especially  good." 


Miss  Fingal  209 

Sir  James  was  busy  with  his  cheque-book.  "Leave 
it  to  me,  my  dear  boy;  I  know  what  I  am  about!"  He 
looked  up  to  give  Jimmy  a  little  wink:  and  Jimmy  went 
on  his  way  rejoicing. 

The  whole  affair  was  a  great  success.  Mrs.  Turner 
sent  up  a  dinner  that  surprised  Jimmy  into  admiration 
and  made  him  feel  that  the  evening  was  beginning  well. 
The  box  was  on  the  grand  tier;  it  was  a  Wagner  night; 
everybody  was  there,  and  going  on  afterwards  to  balls 
and  parties:  festivity  was  in  the  air.  Music  held  Aline 
more  and  more,  and  the  show  delighted  her.  "We'll 
come  again,"  she  told  Mrs.  Bendish.  They  were  in  the 
centre  of  the  house,  so  there  was  no  straining  to  get  a 
view  of  the  stage. 

"So  sensible  of  you  to  wait  till  you  could  manage  it," 
Jimmy  said.  "In  a  box  at  the  side  a  man  is  expected 
to  stand  while  your  sex  takes  the  front  seats,  and  he 
has  to  crane  his  neck  round  the  corner  and  pretend  he 
doesn't  mind." 

"We'll  always  have  a  centre  box  and  we  will  come 
often,"  she  answered  recklessly.  Her  eyes  were  shining, 
she  was  animated:  the  Sloane  Street  dressmaker,  who 
had  once  been  on  the  stage  and  was  an  artist  with 
an  eye  for  colour  and  form,  had  seen  to  her  toilette. 
Aline  had  toned  it  down  with  Burdett's  help;  but  it  was 
the  better  for  it.  She  had  never  heard  the  opera  before. 
It  enchanted  her;  it  was  a  new  and  wonderful  emotion. 
The  forest  was  like  a  home  she  remembered;  when  she 
heard  Siegfried  coming  she  glanced  quickly  up  at  her 
shoulder  as  though  she  expected  to  see  his  human  coun- 
terpart beside  her;  when  he  bent  over  Brunnhilde  she 
felt  her  heart  throb  with  excitement  till  she  heard 
Jimmy's  voice  saying:  "He  won't  stick  to  her,  but  he 
has  done  it  very  well." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Oh,  how  can  you!"  she 
said.  "You  have  driven  them  away — you  have  sent 
them  back — and  they  must  have  been  so  glad  to  get  a 
little  spell  of  life  again." 

He  stared  at  her.     "You  speak  as  if  they  were  real." 

"Perhaps  they  have  been,"  she  answered,  "and  may 
be  again.  I  feel  as  if  everything  goes  on  somewhere,  and 


210  Miss  Fingal 

somehow,  but  differently:  that  is  why  it  is  all  so  difficult 
to  understand." 

"She's  a  strange  creature,"  Jimmy  told  his  sister 
when  he  was  seeing  her  off  from  Victoria  next  morning, 
"so  patchy  in  her  thoughts,  and  sometimes  one  could 
imagine  that  she  had  been  infected  with  a  little  of  Allis- 
ton's  rot.  By  the  way,  he  was  in  the  stalls  last  night. 
I  didn't  spot  him  till  he  was  just  going  out." 

"I  saw  him,"  Bertha  answered.  "He  looked  at  us, 
but  I  suppose  he  didn't  like  to  come  up." 


VIII. 

AN  heiress,  fairly  young,  and  rather  attractive  was  not  to 
be  overlooked;  so  the  residents  of  Wavercombe  who  had 
London  houses  scrupulously  called  on  Miss  Fingal  when 
they  heard  of  her  arrival  in  Bedford  Square  and  invited 
her  to  luncheon  or  dinner,  or  sent  her  cards  for  their 
evening  parties.  It  was  mid-June,  1914.  The  season 
was  at  its  height,  the  traffic  in  the  fashionable  thorough- 
fares was  congested,  and  the  Park  filled  twice  a  day 
with  well-dressed  crowds;  the  window-boxes  in  the 
squares  were  a  mass  of  colour;  in  the  evening  there 
were  awnings  at  many  houses,  and  strips  of  red  drugget 
across  the  pavement.  It  was  all  new  and  exciting  to 
her;  Battersea  had  known  nothing  of  such  doings;  but 
she  soon  grew  tired  of  them.  She  liked  her  London 
house  with  its  old-fashioned  air,  and  the  summer  fresh- 
ness that  had  fallen  upon  it,  as  of  an  old  world  and  a 
new  one  meeting.  She  enjoyed  receiving  her  callers,  or 
playing  hostess  when  she  ventured  to  give  some  modest 
entertainment.  But  the  gathering  together  of  people 
night  after  night,  to  eat  and  drink,  or  to  talk  about 
nothing  in  particular,  struck  her  as  being  curiously 
fatuous.  She  remembered  that  in  the  novels  she  had 
read  long  ago  at  the  flat,  there  had  been  pictures  of  the 
manner  of  life  with  which  she  was  becoming  acquainted ; 
they  represented  it  as  full  of  delirious  delight,  she  had 
lingered  over  them  as  over  an  impossible  dream.  The 
dream  in  a  measure  had  come  true;  but  she  was  awake 
and  it  did  not  appeal  to  her,  any  more  than  it  had  done 
to  Linda.  The  self  of  those  days  had  been  different,  it 
seemed  to  be  merged  in  some  intangibility  that  remained 

211 


212  Miss  Fingal 

of  the  woman  whose  influence  over  her  had  been  the 
first  personal  one  she  had  known. 

Jimmy  called  himself  her  London  pilot,  and  was  more 
and  more  content  in  her  company;  she  was  a  restful 
little  person,  grateful  and  naive.  It  was  amusing  to 
take  her  about,  she  looked  nice — and  so  natural;  didn't 
make  up,  as  most  women  did,  or  wear  semi-indecent 
clothes,  and  she  had  no  tricks.  She  didn't  expect  to  be 
everlastingly  given  chocolates,  though  he  was  quite  will- 
ing to  give  her  as  many  as  she  wanted;  or  to  be  made 
love  to,  he  was  not  in  the  least  inclined  to  do  that;  he 
would  have  thought  it  ridiculous  and  laughed  at  himself. 
He  wondered  sometimes  at  her  pre-occupation,  at  the 
day-dreaming  air  with  which  she  accepted  most  things. 
She  was  interested  in  her  new  view  of  London  life  and 
such  of  its  gaities  that  fell  to  her,  but  it  was  obvious 
she  had  not  much  desire  for  their  continuance,  though 
she  was  a  fair  success.  There  was  something  magnetic 
about  her:  the  demure  figure  had  never  been  other  than 
graceful,  lately  it  had  even  acquired  some  beauty;  and 
her  dressmaker  was  evidently  first-rate.  Besides  all  this, 
there  had  come  over  her  a  phase  that  puzzled  him;  it 
might  be  the  fresh  interests,  he  thought,  the  heaps  of 
books,  mostly  of  poetry  and  mysticism,  she  was  always 
buying,  and  eagerly  reading  before  putting  them  on  the 
shelves  that  a  little  time  before  had  held  the  dry  and 
dusty  volumes  belonging  to  uncle  John;  or  the  leaning 
towards  art  and  music  she  was  showing.  Anyway  some- 
thing was  having  an  effect  upon  her,  and  that  something 
to  the  good,  it  didn't  matter  precisely  what  it  was — she 
was  no  longer  a  little  stick-in-the-mud,  and  in  an 
unexcited  manner  he  was  happy.  On  her,  the  effect  he 
made  was  one  of  grateful  friendliness  with  an  utter 
absence  of  surprise  at  anything  he  did  or  said.  She  felt 
as  if  she  had  known  him  always,  as  if  her  memory, 
though  she  did  not  take  account  of  it,  held  him,  too,  in  its 
background.  They  went  for  many  strolls  in  the  parks 
and  long  jaunts  in  the  motor.  They  seldom  talked 
much,  but  he  liked  her  silence;  she  responded  quickly 
enough  to  pictures  or  music  or  any  entertainment  to 
which  he  chanced  to  take  her,  and  if  she  asked  questions 


Miss  Fingal  213 

they  were  sufficiently  intelligent.  He  was  startled 
occasionally  by  a  suggestion  of  questing  in  her  eyes, 
just  as  in  a  far  greater  degree  there  was  in  Dick 
Alliston's.  Sometimes  he  saw  her  turn  her  head  and 
with  a  little  smile  look  downwards  as  if  some  lower 
thing  in  stature  were  by  her  side;  it  made  him  feel, 
as  she  felt,  that  these  days  were  but  a  prelude,  or  a 
passage-way,  an  interval  between  that  which  had  been 
and  that  which  was  to  come. 

He  asked  her  once  what  her  life  had  been  at  Batter- 
sea.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  perplexed:  then  the 
young  couple  to  whom  she  had  given  her  furniture 
jerked  themselves  into  her  vision;  but  she  could  not 
remember  what  they  were  called.  She  told  him  about 
the  days  in  the  flat,  their  monotony  and  quiet,  and 
about  the  park  over  the  way;  how  her  ears  had  been 
filled  with  the  sounds  that  came  from  it,  her  eyes  with 
its  greenness  in  summer,  and  its  brownness  and  bareness 
in  winter.  But  it  seemed  as  if  she  only  remembered 
it  all  with  an  effort — as  if  she  held  her  eyes  down  to 
the  picture  she  had  conjured  back  to  her  mind. 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  wondered  whether  she  had 
been  awake  then,  or  even  alive.  "And  do  you  mean 
to  say  that  you  lived  opposite  that  park  for  all  those 
years  and  never  entered  it?" 

"Never — in  all  those  years." 

"Strange  beings  women  are!  You  generally  appear 
to  have  a  particular  fancy  for  trees  and  flowers  and  the 
rest  of  it." 

"I  know,  but  I  have  altered  so  much  since  then. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  am  the  same  woman,  or  if  I  only 
remember  her  ...  I  must  go  and  look  at  the  old  houses 
in  Cheyne  Walk  again,  to  make  sure  that  I  am  I." 

"Take  me?" 

"I  will.  We'll  go  in  the  car.  I'll  show  you  the 
block  of  flats  and  the  little  top  balcony  on  which  I 
used  to  stand  listening  to  the  band  in  the  distance,  to 
look  across  at  the  people  over  the  way — and  feel  that 
I  was  outside  their  world."  She  was  thoughtful  for  a 
moment,  then  she  leant  forward.  "Jimmy,"  she  said, 
"sometimes  I  think  I  am  outside  the  world  now:  not 


214  Miss  Fingal 

always,  only  sometimes — looking  on  at  it  and  trying  to 
get  stronger — or  wandering  away  to  strange  places;  I 
bring  myself  back  from  them  with  an  effort  and  can 
hardly  believe  that  I  am  here  ...  it  is  wonderful  to  see 
them.  ...  I  spent  such  long  wasted  years  at  Battersea, 
but  I  hadn't  enough  life  in  me  to  live  them  differently." 

"You  are  steering  towards  some  sort  of  mystic 
idealism:  I  thought  so  the  other  day  when  I  saw  some 
of  the  books  you  had  bought.  Linda  had  too  much  of 
it  lately,  she  got  it  from  Alliston,  and  probably  talked 
it  to  you.  I  wonder  what  the  deuce  it  is  you  think 
you  are  driving  at?" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know — but  do  any  of  us  know 
much  about  ourselves?  I  try  to  live  up  to  the  concep- 
tion these  new  people  have  of  me — to  be  what  they  will 
like,  and  then  it  comes  over  me  that  I'm  not  the  woman 
they  think,  but  some  one  quite  different,  and  that  I  have 
no  right  to  be  living  here — the  cottage  has  never  seemed 
quite  to  belong  to  me  either,  I  always  feel  that  it  is 
Linda's  still — or  the  children's." 

"I  wonder  you  don't  go  there.  The  children  are 
pretty  certain  to  turn  up  at  Beechwood  before  very  long, 
though,  of  course,  you  never  know  what  Lady  Hester 
will  do ;  she  may  palm  them  off  on  my  stepmother,  "or 
send  them  to  Timbuctoo  for  some  reason  of  her  own. 
If  she  married  the  Argentine  millionaire — who  appears 
to  be  dangling  after  her — she  might  take  them  with 
her  to  South  America.  But  she  always  gets  bored  with 
responsibility,  and  she  would  find  a  way  of  sending 
them  back." 

"It  would  be  too  dreadful  if  she  took  them  all  that 
way!"  she  exclaimed. 

He  looked  puzzled.  "But  why  should  you  worry 
about  it?  Are  you  very  fond  of  them?" 

"They  are  always  before  my  eyes — " 

"The  railway  accident,  I  expect,"  he  said  consolingly. 
"Look  here,  why  don't  you  go  abroad  for  a  bit?" 

"Sometimes  I  think  I'll  go  to  Paris  and  see  them." 

"You  mightn't  find  them.  And  if  you  did  you 
couldn't  very  well  take  Lady  Hester  in  hand — she 
might,  of  course,  be  glad  to  shovel  them  off  on  you,  for 


Miss  Fingal  215 

It  isn't  as  easy  as  it  sounds  to  cart  about  two  children 
and  a  nurse,  in  the  way  she  likes  to  do  things,  at  this 
crowded  time  of  year,  and  with  her  somewhat  cramped 
resources.  She  may  have  brought  off  a  coup  at  Monte 
Carlo,  of  course,  or  have  politely  rooked  the  millionaire, 
or  married  him ;  but  if  she  hasn't  she  won't  be  able  to  stay 
very  long  in  Paris ;  even  if  she  makes  my  father  pay 
up  at  first,  he'll  get  tired  of  it.  We  don't  know  why  she 
went  there  yet,  or  sent  for  my  stepmother.  .  .  .  But 
take  things  calmly  and  don't  worry." 

"I  feel  so  restless." 

"I  expect  women  often  do  if  they  are  not  anchored  to 
relations,  or  to  the  necessity  of  getting  a  living,  or  unless 
they  have  something  else  to  absorb  their  spare  energies. 
Look  here,  why  don't  you  get  training  of  some  sort,  or 
learn  a  language?  Alliston  says  there'll  be  a  war  over 
this  Servian  business:  if  there  is,  I  don't  suppose  it'll 
come  our  way,  but  there  would  be  plenty  of  work  for 
women  out  there  and  in  odd  corners  of  the  Continent; 
you  would  get  new  experiences  and  picturesque  difficul- 
ties that  would  interest  you:  it's  an  excellent  dodge  to 
turn  one's  memory  into  a  storehouse." 

"Till  I  left  Battersea  there  was  nothing  in  mine." 

"And  of  course  you  are  handicapped  by  your  sex: 
women  always  want  to  exercise  their  emotions." 

"Don't  men  too?" 

"Well,  yes,  but  men  come  under  a  different  category; 
they  have  to  face  some  hard  facts  of  life,  from  which  the 
majority  of  women  are  still  more  or  less  safeguarded,  and 
that  keeps  them  from  being  thrown  back  too  much  on 
the  softer  side — and  finding  it  disappointing." 

"I  am  not  disappointed,  Jimmy,  only  trying  to  find 
out  the  things  I  ought  to  do, — I  had  no  friends  at  all 
till  this  last  year.  I  can't  think  now  how  I  could  live 
through  all  those  blank  years  without  knowing  any  one 
at  all — nor  why  I  didn't  do  something." 

"It  would  have  been  better,"  he  allowed,  "even  if  it 
had  only  been  charing." 

"Mrs.  Bailey,  with  the  red  flower  in  her  bonnet,  did 
that  for  me." 

"Yes — "  he  answered  absently,  evidently  not  knowing 


2i6  Miss  Fingal 

anything  about  Mrs.  Bailey.  He  looked  at  her  doubt- 
fully, a  smile  lurked  in  his  eyes,  a  question  seemed  to  be 
on  his  lips  that  amused  him. 

"What  is  it,  Jimmy?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  would  like  to  marry  me,"  he 
answered. 

She  looked  up  in  amazement.  "Why — no,  I  wouldn't," 
she  said. 

"I  thought  not."  His  tone  was  triumphant.  She 
laughed  as  she  heard  it. 

"Then  why  did  you  ask  me?" 

"I  thought  I'd  better.  You  don't  seem  to  know  what 
to  do  with  yourself,  to  be  in  a  sort  of  maze;  it  would 
have  been  one  way  out." 

"It  wouldn't  do  at  all." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  it  would,"  he  agreed  pleasantly, 
"so  that's  all  right." 

"I'm  really  fond  of  you,  just  as  I  am  of  Bertha,  but 
I  dont  want  to " 

"You  needn't  apologise.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
couldn't  do  it,  unless  I  had  five  thousand  a  year,  or  you 
gave  your  money  to  a  charity." 

"It's  so  funny  of  you — I  didn't  think " 

"My  dear  child,  don't  worry — it  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  You  have  really  done  me  a  good  turn,  for 
now  I  can  tell  the  Pater  you  wouldn't  have  me,  and  then 
he'll  be  satisfied." 

"Did  he ?" 

"Of  course.  He's  very  fond  of  you."  This  was  true: 
he  thought  it  unnecessary  to  tell  her  any  more. 

"It's  very  kind  of  him." 

"Don't  mention  it,  and  again  I  entreat  you  not  to 
worry.  Young  women  don't  take  an  offer  of  marriage 
very  seriously  now,  they  have  so  many  other  things  in 
their  heads.  Forget  all  about  it  and  let  us  go  on  as 
before.  I  like  coming  to  see  you — and  Mrs.  Turner  has 
my  sincere  regard." 

"You  are  very  greedy."  She  blinked  the  soft  eyes 
that  had  gained  more  expression  lately,  and  laughed. 
"Oh,  it's  too  funny!"  she  repeated. 

"That's  the  way  to  take  it,"  he  laughed  back.     "Now 


Miss  Fingal  217 

then  there's  an  end  of  that — it  has  evidently  put  you 
into  good  spirits,  which  is  something.  Shake  off  de- 
lusions, my  dear:  shall  I  come  and  take  you  out  some- 
where to-night?" 

"I  am  going  to  a  dinner-party  at  Mrs.  Derrick's." 

"Are  you?"  he  answered  in  a  sympathetic  tone. 
"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Cyril  Batson  takes  you  in."  He 
reflected  for  a  moment.  "I  am  sorry  for  him,  poor  ass. 
Cherry  Ripe  has  played  the  deuce  with  him;  he  only 
pretended  at  first — but  he  is  really  in  love  with  her  now 
— it  probably  serves  him  right,  but  that  doesn't  console 
him.  Well,  good-bye.  I  shall  come  again  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  never  mind  about  your  uneasy  feeling;  lots  of 
people  have  it  and  don't  know  why.  Alliston  says  that 
it's  the  political  storm  brewing;  civil  war,  or  a  row  in 
Eastern  Europe,  or  Ireland,  and  that  London  is  re- 
hearsing a  dance  of  death  before  the  avalanche.  But 
he  always  rushes  ahead,  and  will  tell  you  the  notes  of 
the  last  trump  before  they  are  sounded." 

"Sometimes  I  wish  I  could  see  him." 

"I'll  bring  him  round  if  you  like." 

"No,  no,"  she  answered  quickly,  "I  couldn't  bear 
it  yet ': 

"Very  well,  but  don't  look  so  frightened;  there  have 
been  criminals  of  a  deeper  dye — a  man  has  even  been 
known  to  bolt  with  a  woman  before,  and  yet  remain 
unhanged." 

"Don't  let  us  talk  about  it,"  she  answered.  Her  whole 
expression  had  changed. 

He  looked  at  her  with  kindly  criticism,  and  departed. 
'Tm  glad  I  got  that  over,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  am 
getting  fond  of  her,  but  I  don't  know  what  the  deuce  I 
should  have  done  if  she  had  accepted  me.  That  sort  of 
thing  isn't  in  my  line.  However,  I'm  even  with  the  old 
man,  he  can't  worry  me  about  it  any  more.  If  I  don't 
get  through,  I  shall  cut  all  ropes  and  drift — to  New 
Zealand  probably." 

Jimmy  guessed  rightly.  Cyril  Batson  did  take  her  in 
and  surprised  her  by  reproaches  for  doing  up  the 
cottages  at  Leesbury.  "It  was  cruel  of  you,"  he  said, 


218  Miss  Fingal 

remembering  what  he  imagined  to  be  his  role  as  a  poet, 
"they  were  so  beautiful;  why  did  you  disturb  them?" 

"Did  you  ever  see  them?" 

"No,  I  never  did;  but  Bendish  told  me  about  them. 
He  has  no  imagination,  and  thought  it  splendid  of  you 
to  spend  money  upon  them;  for  he  is  a  legal  person  and 
money  appeals  to  him,  but  to  spend  it  on  spoiling  beauty 
is  to  spend  it  on  desecration." 

"The  cottages  were  letting  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
and  killing  the  poor  women  who  live  in  them." 

"Desolation  and  decay  are  so  beautiful.  I  can 
imagine  the  crumbling  walls  and  the  roofs  dropping 
away  bit  by  bit,  a  tribute  to  the  power  of  time,  prostrat- 
ing themselves  at  the  feet  of  the  future,  and  the  old 
women  battling  with  the  elements — the  great  eternal 
elements.  Surely  it  would  be  finer  than  sitting  over  the 
fire,  with  only  their  commonplace  thoughts  and  desires 
for  food  and  comfort.  And  the  porches " 

"Porches?" 

"I  can  imagine  them.  Little  old  porches  covered 
with  jasmine  and  clematis  or  traveller's  joy — such  a 
lovely  name  for  it — traveller's  joy,"  he  repeated — "all 
destroyed,  gone  for  ever, — the  vampire  builder  will  come 
and  they  will  vanish " 

"But  the  porches  were  never  there,"  she  said. 

The  man  on  the  other  side  of  her,  a  Sir  George  Some- 
body— she  didn't  catch  his  name — wholesome-looking 
and  slightly  grizzled,  gave  her  a  little  wink  and  whis- 
pered: "He  has  raked  up  a  second-hand  copy  of  The 
Yellow-book.  Ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  the  murder  of 
the  Austrian  Archduke?" 

"Why?" 

"I  heard  him  tell  some  one  just  now  that  it  was  too 
distant  to  be  interesting.  It  is  -curious,"  he  went  on  in 
an  undertone,  "that  the  intellectual  capacity  of  these 
anaemic  young  men  is  seldom  strong  enough  to  reach 
beyond  their  own  importance  and  a  looking-glass : 
nothing  else  matters  to  them,  that's  why  they  write 
their  own  biographies  and  call  them  novels."  He 
looked  past  her  and  asked,  "What  do  you  make  of  the 
Servian  business,  Batson?" 


Miss  Fingal  219 

"Nothing;  it  is  a  country  with  a  past  that  doesn't 
appeal  to  me;  the  last  tragedy  in  its  history  was  sordid 
and  violent,  and  the  players  were  unworthy  of  romance," 
he  added  drearily. 

"Humph!  The  more  recent  one  may  prove  to  be  the 
match  to  the  torch:  what  then?" 

"I  shall  love  the  torch's  flare  and  go  to  contemplate 
it  from  some  dim  corner.  Torches  lighted  by  the  by- 
gone ages — "  He  turned  an  eye  down  on  Miss  Fingai 
to  see  that  she  was  listening 

"Depend  upon  it,  they  don't  make  them  as  well  as 
they  did,"  Sir  George  remarked. 

"They  make  nothing  as  well,  do  nothing  as  splendid. 
The  eternity  of  the  bygone  centuries  must  be  wonder- 
ful, with  so  much  greatness  in  it — to  be  in  it,  a  part  of 
it,  will  be  the  compensation  for  mortal  life,  which  is 
always  overrated."  He  turned  to  the  entree  and  carefully 
selected  the  morsel  he  liked  best. 

The  grizzly  one  whispered  to  Miss  Fingal:  "This  talk 
is  only  a  trick,  he  learns  a  yard  or  two  of  it  every  night 
before  he  conies  out." 

Cyril  Batson  unconsciously  hurried  her  to  the  cottage. 
She  made  up  her  mind  that  night.  She  was  nearly  at 
the  end  of  her  invitations,  she  could  throw  over  the 
rest.  It  was  the  first  week  in  July;  the  uneasy  feeling, 
unconsciously  felt  in  London,  hurried  people  into  last 
gaieties,  last  excesses,  before  they  rushed  to  the  country 
to  recruit,  or  to  shelter  from  a  possible  storm.  She 
longed  to  get  to  Wavercombe  before  them.  The 
Gilstons  were  not  yet  back  from  Paris,  but,  having 
broken  the  chain  of  London  engagements,  they  would 
probably  go  straight  to  Beechwood,  especially  if  they 
Drought  back  Linda's  children;  and,  apart  from  this, 
the  talk  that  evening  made  her  feel  the  foolishness  of 
the  social  game  when  it  was  carried  on  merely  for  its 
own  sake.  The  thought  of  the  cottage  brought  back 
a  passionate  desire  to  see  it,  to  be  there — to  wander 
through  its  peaceful  little  rooms,  with  the  wide-open 
windows  and  the  glorious  vegetation  of  summer  looking 
in  upon  them — to  sit  in  the  garden, — there  was  the  ilex 
on  one  side,  and  the  glorious  shady  acacia  in  the  middle 


220  Miss  Fingal 

of  the  lawn,  there  were  thick  upstanding  fences  of  sweet- 
peas  screening  the  way  to  the  kitchen  garden.  Webb 
had  told  her  there  were  some  late  strawberries  nearly 
ready:  he  had  been  making  a  chicken-run  and  a  shed 
with  nest  boxes  against  it,  close  to  the  orchard,  and 
some  fat  white  hens  were  running  about  beneath  the 
apple-trees — she  longed  to  see  it  all.  If  only  she  could 
show  it  to  them  ...  to  them?  .  .  . 

"Burdett!"  she  said,  while  that  tactful  maid  was  un- 
fastening the  white  dress,  and  taking  off  the  seed  pearls 
in  which  four  hours  ago  she  had  stood  before  the  glass, 
admiring  herself,  "I  don't  think  I  want  any  more 
dinner-parties." 

"No,  madam?     It's  very  close  in  London  just  now." 

"I  wish  we  were  at  the  cottage!" 

"Yes,  madam;  it's  lovely  there." 

"We'll  go.  I  can't  live  any  longer  away  from  it." 
She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  And 
Burdett,  knowing  her  ways  by  now,  left  her  mistress  to 
day-dream. 

She  sat  very  still.  "But  it's  the  children  I  want," 
she  said.  "The  children — "  she  repeated  under  her 
breath,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  project  her  voice  into 
the  far-off.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  leant  her  head  down 
on  the  cushion  .  .  .  farther — farther — till  she  was  in 
some  portion  of  the  world  that  was  full  of  dreamy 
calm,  with  pathways  stretching  to  green  and  shady 
distances.  She  was  hurrying  along  with  noiseless  steps 
— swifter — swifter.  "The  children,"  she  whispered,  "the 
children,  perhaps  I  shall  see  them  here!"  She  rested 
on  a  bank  by  the  wayside  and  waited — she  heard  them 
coming — she  saw  them  plainly — at  last — they  came 
nearer — shyly  towards  her — she  was  afraid  to  move  or 
to  speak  lest  it  should  frighten  them  away.  Sturdie 
stood  by  her,  clasping  her  knees,  and  Bridget  climbed 
on  to  her  lap  and  put  up  the  little  arms  that  were  too 
short  to  meet  round  her  neck.  .  .  .  "My  darlings,"  she 
whispered,  "I  have  been  waiting  such  a  long  time."  .  .  . 
She  gave  a  long  sigh  as  the  waking-dream  went  into 
nothingness — such  a  happy  dream  it  was:  in  the  dark- 
ness she  smiled  as  she  remembered  it. 


IX. 


THE  next  morning  she  telegraphed  to  Jimmy,  asking 
him  to  lunch  with  her,  for  to-morrow  she  was  going  to 
the  cottage.  He  came  promptly. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  he  said,  "but  why  so  sud- 
denly ?" 

"I  don't  know,  something  is  driving  me  there.  Have 
you  heard  from  Lady  Gilston?" 

"No,  but  I've  heard  from  Bertha.  A  very  curious 
thing,  the  Pater  went  pelting  off  to  Switzerland  to  fetch 
the  two  school-girls  back,  my  half-sisters,  you  know. 
They  were  in  Paris  when  he  wrote,  they  may  be  at 
Beechwood  any  day — may  be  there  now  for  all  I  know." 

"But  Linda's  children?" 

"He  doesn't  say  a  word  about  them,  or  she  doesn't 
at  any  rate.  Don't  fidget  about  it,  it  will  all  come  right. 
Things  do  if  you  leave  them  alone.  Is  that  food?"  as 
the  gong  sounded.  "I'm  very  hungry!" 

He  look  at  her  when  she  had  sat  down  at  the  head 
of  the  table  in  the  dining-room — it  always  seemed  too 
large  for  the  one  little  figure — he  was  at  the  side,  quite 
near  her,  and  could  study  her  profile,  and  the  line  of 
white  throat  that  reminded  him  of  a  coin  he  could  not 
identify.  She  satisfied  his  eyes  very  much.  "I  am 
sorry  she  is  going,"  he  thought,  "it  will  be  so  dull 
without  her."  Then  half  hesitating  he  asked — "Do  you 
mean  to  motor  to  the  cottage  to-morrow?" 

She  made  a  little  sound  of  satisfaction.  "All  the  way 
— every  mile." 

"Should  I  be  in  the  way  if  I  went  with  you?  There's 
a  good  train  back  at  seven.  I  looked  it  up." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  almost  affectionately. 

221 


222  Miss  Fingal 

"Yes,  Jimmy  dear,  you  would.  I  want  to  be  alone — 
all  the  way  there — to  be  cut  off  from  everything  for  a 
little  while  but  my  own  thoughts — the  isolation  of  a 
journey  rests  one  so  much.  ...  I  shall  think  of  you  as 
I  pass  the  pond;  you  don't  mind  my  not  letting  you 
come?" 

"No."  His  voice  showed  understanding,  and  she 
liked  him  for  it.  "There  are  times  when  every  human 
being  wants  to  be  alone,  but  I'm  sorry  you  are  going 
away — you  are  rather  a  good  little  pal."  She  took  it  as 
high  praise.  "And  look  here,  I  mustn't  stay  long  now 
for,  strange  to  say,  I'm  working,  and  must  get  back  to 
my  rooms  at  half-past  two." 

"I  am  going  down  to  Piccadilly  in  the  car — I  can 
take  you  back — it's  not  much  farther,  and  oh!  Jimmy, 
I  told  Mrs.  Turner  to  send  up  the  Russian  pudding  you 
like." 

"It  was  very  thoughtful  of  you.  She  made  it  rather 
too  sweet  last  time.  Let  us  hope  she  won't  to-day." 
He  tried  to  look  pleased;  but  it  did  not  save  the  little 
luncheon  from  a  last-time  air:  the  dining-room  itself 
had  it.  And  Stimson  was  not  as  alert  as  usual;  he  was 
depressed  at  having  to  leave  London  a  fortnight  sooner 
than  he  had  anticipated,  and  worried  at  being  told  to 
take  charge  of  Burdett;  a  lady's  maid  was  an  innova- 
tion to  which  he  had  not  yet  accustomed  himself. 

"I  am  longing  to  see  it  again,"  Aline  said  after  a  long 
minute's  silence.  In  imagination  she  had  hurried  over 
every  stage  of  the  journey — the  way  from  London,  the 
houses  fewer  and  fewer  and  farther  apart,  the  long 
stretches  of  road — the  heather  and  hurtleberries,  the 
briar  that  would  be  in  bloom — the  fir  woods,  with  their 
long  straight  stems  like  slim  dark  columns,  the  light 
showing  through  them  and  the  blackness  at  the  top 
that  almost  roofed  them:  and  presently  the  Hampshire 
lanes,  and  the  wall  of  Beech  wood,  and  the  gates  that  had 
come  from  Italy  ...  in  at  those  gates  the  children 
would  go  if  they  came  back  with  Lady  Gilston. 

"To  see  what?"  Jimmy  asked  with  a  start. 

"The  place — the  country — everything.  You  must 
come  one  day,  you  and  Bertha — if  I  am  there.  I  am 


Miss  Fingal  223 

not  sure  that  I  can  stay  through  the  garden-party 
season." 

"I  don't  think  you  can,"  he  answered  solemnly.  "It 
is  a  comfort  to  find  a  woman  who  feels  its  enormity." 
He  was  silent  again  for  a  minute  or  two  before  he  said 
almost  to  himself:  "I  wonder  what  you  will  do  with 
the  future." 

She  woke  up  a  little  at  that.  "I  want  to  see  what  it 
will  do  with  me,"  she  said.  "I  have  been  thinking  that 
this  house,  and  the  cottage  too,  can't  be  meant  for  me 
to  live  in  all  my  life  alone." 

He  stared  at  her,  but  the  clear  eyes  faced  him  without 
any  sign  of  confusion.  "Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"It's  too  much,  too  large  a  share." 

"It  sounds  as  if  the  modern  feeling  were  laying  hold 
of  you;  I  am  afraid  it  is  of  me — I  don't  like  it,  though 
I  can't  help  it." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Well,  you  are  becoming  dissatisfied  with  your  show, 
as  I  am  with  mine.  You  had  better  get  something 
harmless  to  do.  I  told  you  so  yesterday." 

"But  what  is  the  modern  feeling — and  what  has  it  to 
do  with  my  living  here  alone?" 

"That  is  it;  you  are  taking  up  too  much  room  in  the 
world,  using  too  many  things,  taking  from  it  all  you  can 
get,  in  fact,  and  not  giving  it  enough  in  return,  and, 
being  a  sensible  young  woman,  you  are  growing  restless 
and  will  become  rather  ashamed  of  yourself.  You  will 
have  to  discover  some  method  of  paying  your  way,  not 
only  with  money  but  with  work  of  some  sort.  Of  course 
rich  people  have  the  chance  of  doing  things  without 
payment — often  excellent  things — that  otherwise  would 
not  be  done  at  all." 

"Do  you  do  anything  for  the  world?"  she  asked 
wickedly. 

"I  have  been  a  rotter  most  of  my  time,  as  I  have  told 
you  before,  but  I  am  coming  to  my  senses.  At  present 
I  live  in  two  rooms  off  the  Embankment  and  profess  to 
be  reading  for  the  Bar.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  pull 
through,  and  if  I  don't  I  shall  probably  go  to  New 
Zealand  and  grow  sheep  to  feed  English  loafers,  send 


224  Miss  Fingal 

them  over  frozen,  excellent  mutton — I  believe  it  doesn't 
require  any  brains  to  make  it  answer.  Most  people 
have  only  hands;  I  doubt  if  mine  are  any  good — but 
anyhow  if  one  gets  away  from  civilisation  it  won't  be  so 
bad;  and  there  will  be  compensations." 

"Compensations  ?" 

"Sky  and  weather,  old  clothes — a  lazy  pipe,  the  feeling 
that  nothing  at  all  matters,  and  that  there  is  not  too 
much  morality  about.  Morality  is  a  great  bore,  espe- 
cially when  it  comes  to  the  finer  points  that  belong  to  the 
civilisation  group  of  virtues." 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,  Jimmy,"  she  said  with  the 
demure  look  he  liked  in  her  eyes. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "Heaven 
forbid  I  should  try  to  bore  you  with  sense." 

"All  people  can't  do  things  for  the  world " 

"And  they  are  often  a  horrible  nuisance  when  they 
try — so,  as  we  are  not  collaborating  for  a  tract,  we 
needn't  discuss  it." 

"Why  did  you  begin  it  ?" 

"Well,  you  see  I  sat  up  late  last  night  arguing  with  a 
lunatic  who  says  that  the  people  with  genius,  and  the 
dreamers  and  idealists  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  that 
unconsciously  we  most  of  us  expect  them  to  crack  the 
shell  of  the  universe  and  pull  out  the  kernel  inside; 
which  is  why  we  put  up  with  them — and  incidentally 
why  we  often  starve  them,  for  we  mayn't  like  the  inside 
when  we  get  it.  The  other  people  he  says  should  fall 
back  and  do  the  best  they  can  to  keep  themselves  and 
their  belongings  decently.  If  they  needn't  work  for  a 
living  they  should  do  something  that  is  in  effect  an 
apology  for  having  more  than  their  share,  as  you  think 
you  have ;  that's  where  the  worker  who  can't  afford  to  do 
things  that  can't  be  paid  for  comes  in.  I  was  horribly 
bored  with  him,  but  too  polite  to  kick  him  out:  so  I 
have  been  trying  some  of  his  rot  on  you — second-hand 
and  not  much  good." 

"I  think  you  are  a  little  mad?" 

"I  dare  say,  but  madness  often  suggests  things  that 
sanity  leaves  alone.  That's  why  I  encouraged  the  lunatic." 

"I   have   only  just  begun  to  live,  Jimmy  dear,"   she 


Miss  Fingal  225 

said  after  a  moment's  pause — there  was  a  note  in  her 
voice  that  touched  him.  "I  don't  want  to  do  anything 
else  yet.  Perhaps  I  have  too  large  a  share,  but  for  years 
I  had  much  less;  and  now  I  have  come  to  love  this 
house,  and  the  cottage " 

It  was  very  surprising  to  himself,  but  he  felt  almost 
tender.  "And  you  didn't  have  much  fun  in  your  life 
till  your  highly  respectable  uncle  died,"  he  said.  "Get 
all  you  can  now  and  enjoy  it." 

There  was  another  spell  of  silence. 

"What  time  must  you  go  back  to  your  rooms?"  she 
asked  when  they  were  having  their  coffee. 

"Half-past  two  will  do." 

"It's  a  quarter  to  two  now  and  the  car  is  at  the  door. 
Pryce  must  have  made  a  mistake  in  the  time." 

"We  should  have  time  to  go  to  Battersea  and  back." 

"Then  let  us  do  it — one  can  go  anywhere  in  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  with  a  motor." 

It  was  less  than  a  year  since  she  had  left  it,  but 
it  was  strange  to  see  Chelsea  again:  she  felt  like  a 
traveller  returning,  and  almost  excited  when  she  beheld 
the  Embankment  and  the  bridge  that  stretched  airily 
across  the  river. 

"Let  us  go  slowly  up  and  down  the  whole  length  of 
Cheyne  Walk,"  she  said,  "but  it  is  the  old  houses  I  want 
you  to  see." 

"Not  the  new  ones,  built  especially  for  cranks?"  he 
asked  maliciously. 

"No."  She  turned  away  to  look  up  at  the  houses  she 
loved.  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again,"  she  said  to 
them.  "The  trees  in  Bedford  Square  belong  to  the 
same  world  that  you  do;  I  am  certain  they  sent  you 
their  love."  She  turned  to  him.  "These  were  the  only 
friends  I  had  for  eight  years." 

"I  should  say  it  wasn't  a  very  troublesome  acquaint- 
ance." 

"No — but  don't  mock  at  me.  I  always  feel  that  so 
many  things  have  life  or  knowledge  of  some  sort — 
though  a  different  sort — as  well  as  human  beings.  How 
do  we  know?" 


226  Miss  Fingal 

"We  don't  know,  of  course,"  he  said  in  his  queer  dry 
manner,  "but  to  say  that  a  row  of  houses  has  it  is  a 
large  order." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  she  answered,  "but  the  air  and 
the  wind  and  the  rain,  and  all  manner  of  strangenesses 
and  influences  bring  gifts  to  most  things.  Perhaps 
among  them  is  a  variation  of  life  or  consciousness  that 
is  not  like  ours  and  yet  reaches  out — even  to  houses 
we  build  if  they  wait  long  enough."  She  looked  up 
at  them  again.  "They  seemed  so  wise  the  day  I  went 
to  Bedford  Square  to  hear  of  my  fortune,"  she  went  on, 
"and  when  I  came  back,  I  felt  as  if  they  knew.  But 
I  never  spoke  to  them  before.  .  .  .  Oh!  I'm  sure  you 
think  me  rather  mad  now?" 

"It  doesn't  matter.  A  little  madness,  as  I  have  just 
said,  has  often  a  good  deal  of  originality  that  common- 
sense  leaves  alone:  the  railway  accident  has  evidently 
given  an  interesting  twist  to  your  brain " 

"Let  us  go  and  see  the  church."  She  looked  up  at 
the  high  red-rick  blocks  of  flats  near  it.  "Bertha  told 
me  that  some  people  live  in  them  who  do  wonderful 
work." 

"Poor  things " 

"They  couldn't  look  out  at  the  river  and  the  trees 
and  the  great  sky  above  them,  and  Lambeth  Palace 
over  the  way,  and  all  the  moving  things  on  the  water, 
and  not  think  a  great  deal,"  she  spoke  as  if  she  had  not 
heard  him. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder:  "My  dear  Aline," 
he  said,  "this  is  Alliston's  stuff  again.  It  helps  to  prove 
that  human  beings  are  instruments  with  the  same  notes 
in  them,  and  what  they  give  out  depends  on  the  players 
who  touch  them." 

"And  the  company  they  keep,"  she  said  with  the 
laugh  that  had  puzzled  Bertha. 

They  went  across  the  bridge.  The  neighbourhood 
looked  ugly  on  the  other  side.  She  remembered  that 
it  always  did,  though  the  shops  at  which  she  dealt  had 
not  seemed  so  common  as  they  did  now.  They  whizzed 
past  them — the  same  people  seemed  to  be  walking  along 
the  pavement,  the  same  untidy  children  loitering;  she 


Miss  Fingal  227 

looked  at  the  children  especially  with  interest  and 
wondered  why  she  used  to  avoid  them.  She  had  seen 
their  side  of  life  every  day  once,  and  taken  it  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Now  it  made  her  ache. 

They  were  passing  the  Battersea  flats.  "This  was 
my  block,"  she  cried;  "I  lived  in  this  one — that  balcony 
at  the  top  belonged  to  my  sitting-room,  that  little  one — 
there  is  a  sun-blind  over  it.  I  never  thought  of  doing 
that." 

"The  green-and-white  striped  one — is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  that  one.  There  are  geraniums  coming  through 
the  iron  balustrade.  It  all  looks  different.  I  wonder 
if  the  park  is  the  same." 

"Shall  we  go  and  see?" 

"No,  no,  I  can't.  Let  us  go  back.  I  feel  like  a 
stranger  who  has  no  business  here.  The  woman  who 
lived  in  that  flat  a  year  ago  belongs  to  another  part 
of  the  world  now — she  has  nothing  to  do  with  this. 
Turn  round,  Pryce,"  she  said  to  the  chauffeur,  "go 
quickly  over  the  bridge  and  by  the  Embankment  to 
Westminster.  It  will  do  us  good,"  she  told  Jimmy, 
"to  look  at  the  long  lines  of  trees  and  the  flickering  bits 
of  sunshine  on  the  river." 

Presently  she  remembered  something:  "I  forgot,"  she 
said,  "I  wanted  to  send  a  message  to  Mrs.  Bendish:  is 
there  a  telephone  office  anywhere  near?" 

They  were  passing  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  "There's 
one  just  at  the  bottom  of  Whitehall." 

"Can  I  do  it  for  you?"  he  asked  when  they  had 
stopped  before  it. 

"Yes,  do.  Tell  Mrs.  Bendish  to  expect  a  hamper  of 
flowers  from  the  cottage,  for  her  party  to-morrow — 
she  knows  I  am  going  back  to  the  cottage  in  the  morning." 
He  left  her  in  the  car.  She  thought"  of  Battersea.  The 
life  there  was  growing  dim  in  her  memory,  though  she 
had  a  lingering  tenderness  for  the  woman  of  the  blank 
days  and  the  loneliness  that  had  been  hers:  so  strange 
not  to  remember  it  all  more  clearly. 

Jimmy  came  out  of  the  Post  Office  followed  by  a 
man,  young,  tall,  and  quick  of  movement,  with  the  gait 
and  figure  of  an  athlete.  He  had  very  bright  eyes, 


228  Miss  Fingal 

and  his  face  suggested  a  capacity  for  happiness  that 
had  struggled  against  tragedy.  She  knew  perfectly  who 
it  was,  before  Jimmy  said  reluctantly  and  with  an 
embarrassed  air:  "This  is  Alliston,  he  says  he  has 
wanted  to  see  you."  There  was  a  moment's  hesitation 
and  silence.  Then  he  added,  "I  may  as  well  get  in,"  as  if 
afraid  of  losing  his  place.  He  shut  the  door  with  a  snap. 

Dick  Alliston  stood  by  the  side  of  the  car,  waiting  for 
her  to  speak.  She  felt  herself  shrink  back,  but  she 
managed  to  say  formally,  "How  do  you  do?" — a  little 
movement  of  her  head  emphasised  its  coldness. 

He  looked  eagerly,  half  absently,  into  the  grey  eyes 
that  had  an  unspoken  reproach  in  them,  and  there  went 
through  him  the  remembrance  of  a  long  straight  road 
in  Normandy,  of  two  people  seated  in  a  car  like  this, 
that  flew  on  and  on  between  two  rows  of  poplar-trees: 
the  sun  was  shining  just  as  it  was  to-day,  and  it  was 
summer-time  just  as  it  was  now  .  .  .  then  he  said,  and 
it  seemed  amazing  that  he  should — "Would  you  let  me 
come  and  see  you?" 

She  shrank  back  again — repelled,  an  insistent  emotion 
took  hold  of  her,  as  she  answered  in  the  old  Miss  Fingal 
formula:  "It's  very  kind  of  you,  but  to-morrow — early — 
I  am  going  to  the  country." 

He  knew,  she  felt  that  he  did,  where  she  was  going, 
and  that  she  was  making  an  excuse.  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  little  smile  that  was  half  scornful,  half  amused: 
"I  heard  of  you  at  Leesbury,"  he  said. 

"At  Leesbury!" 

"You  were  at  the  'White  Hart'  after  a  train  accident." 
His  eyes  were  still  fastened  on  her.  She  could  hardly 
bear  it. 

"But  you — "  she  managed  to  say,  "were  you  there — 
at  the  hotel?" 

"No,  I  was  at  the  farm." 

"At  the  farm!"  she  repeated  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  she 
doubted  that  she  had  heard  aright. 

"I  stayed  there — for  a  few  days." 

"You  stayed  there  since ?" 

He  nodded  for  answer.  "That's  why  I  wanted  to  see 
you." 


Miss  Fingal  229 

"Oh!"  She  made  a  little  sound  of  resentment,  so 
low  that  she  herself  hardly  heard  it,  and  turned  away: 
there  was  a  moment's  strange  silence.  She  heard  Jimmy 
say  to  Pryce,  "You  had  better  go  on — "  she  looked  round 
but  Dick  Alliston  had  gone,  so  quickly  and  completely 
it  seemed  uncanny. 

"I  knew  that  you  would  come  across  him  somehow," 
Jimmy  said. 

She  was  straining  her  eyes  to  find  him  in  the  distance, 
but  there  was  no  sign;  she  put  her  hands  to  them  for  a 
moment,  as  if  to  make  sure  she  were  awake.  "Why 
did  he  want  to  come  and  see  me?"  she  asked. 

Jimmy  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"He  couldn't  have  cared  for  her." 

"He  did — you  were  rather  cruel  to  him." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  that." 

"It's  no  good  judging  people — they  take  things  differ- 
ently. It  would  have  been  better  to  let  him  come." 

"I  couldn't — how  could  I?"  It  was  like  a  hushed 
cry. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "Don't  let  it  worry 
you,  dear,"  he  said  gently.  "You  needn't  see  him  again. 
He's  not  likely  to  come  to  the  cottage." 

She  dropped  Jimmy  at  the  Embankment  end  of  Buck- 
ingham Street,  and  the  car  was  turned  homewards. 
A  little  wind  from  the  river  blew  across  her  face,  and 
she  shivered  though  it  was  a  warm  sunny  day.  "How 
could  he  go  to  the  farm?"  she  said  to  herself.  "How 
could  he  do  that?" 

She  half-stumbled  as  she  entered  the  house  in  Bedford 
Square.  Burdett  met  her  on  the  stairs,  she  shook  her 
head  and  went  up  to  her  own  room  and,  locking  the 
door,  buried  her  head  in  the  cushions  where  she  had  sat 
dreaming  of  the  children  two  nights  ago.  "Ke  could 
never  have  cared !"  she  moaned ;  "he  left  her  for  a 
common  woman — and  he  went  to  the  farm,  though  she 
had  died  there."  She  pressed  deeper  into  the  cushions, 
as  if  to  get  farther  away  from  him,  but  she  only  saw 
him  more  plainly  still — his  bright  eyes  and  short  thick 
hair,  the  worn  expression  on  his  face,  and  the  ghost  of 
a  smile  that  had  just  for  a  moment  lighted  it  up.  She 


230  Miss  Fingal 

heard  Linda  say  again — "My  splendid  Dick!"  and  gave 
herself  up  to  the  gusts  of  feeling  that  fell  upon  her  in 
turn — anger  with  him  and  reproach  for  her  manner  just 
now — he  had  suffered — suffered — it  hurt  her  to  see  it — 
she  wished  she  had  been  different,  there  might  be  some- 
thing— Jimmy  said  people  saw  things  differently,  but 
there  was  only  one  way  to  see  this:  "He  forgot  all 
those  days  that  were  heaven  itself — he  could  never  really 

have  cared " 

A  confused  vision  went  swiftly  across  her  brain.  She 
sat  up  and  said  slowly,  "He  couldn't  have  cared  even 
then — "  As  if  she  heard  a  reproach  she  stopped.  "Dick 
— Dick!"  she  whispered,  "I  didn't  mean  it."  Perplexed, 
she  roused  herself  and  thought,  "Why  should  these 
memories  come  to  me?" 


X. 


SHE  had  been  three  days  at  the  cottage.  Gradually  it 
had  calmed  her;  she  was  glad  to  rest,  to  be  away  from 
all  the  agitations  of  London.  Peace  and  the  allure- 
ments of  summer  had  taken  her  into  their  keeping. 

There  was  not  a  sign  of  the  Gilstons.  Webb  had 
heard  nothing.  Mr.  Randall,  whom  she  met  the  morn- 
ing after  her  arrival,  asked  if  she  had  had  any  news  of 
them:  it  was  evident  that  he  had  none.  Mrs.  Marriot, 
the  doctor's  wife,  who  saw  her  pass  in  the  motor  and 
promptly  called,  knew  nothing;  but  she  remarked  by 
way  of  being  agreeable  that  one  or  two  new  people  had 
come  to  live  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  there  were  sure 
to  be  some  tennis-parties  next  month:  which  was  not 
nearly  such  pleasing  intelligence  as  she  imagined.  She 
added  that  Lady  Francis  of  the  Tower  House — she  was 
already  there  after  a  lovely  season  in  London — was 
getting  up  a  bazaar  with  a  gipsy  band  in  aid  of  a  new 
recreation-room  beyond  the  church;  Mr.  Randall  was 
very  pleased  about  it,  and  his  sister,  who  was  a  cripple, 
and  so  patient,  poor  thing,  was  coming  to  it  from  Chis- 
wick,  where  she  lived.  Lady  Gilston  was  sure  to  give 
a  garden-party,  if  she  came  back  in  time.  Lady  Gil- 
ston was  in  Paris  now  with  Lady  Hester  Markham, 
who  was  charming  and  so  kind,  but  probably  very 
unhappy  at  the  death  of  her  daughter;  of  course  Miss 
Fingal  had  felt  that  too,  living  at  the  cottage  that  had 
been  Mrs.  Alliston's  before  it  was  Mr.  John  Fingal's? 
It  was  very  sad  that  two  owners  of  the  cottage  should 
die  within  so  short  a  time  of  each  other,  such  a  sweet 
little  place  too;  and  Webb  was  considered  an  excellent 
gardener,  his  flowers  had  taken  three  prizes  at  the 

231 


232  Miss  Fingal 

Midhurst  Flower  Show,  the  same  year  that  Miss 
Francis  of  the  Tower  House  had  won  the  Champion 
Cup,  at  tennis,  at  Farnham.  (Here  she  paused  to  take 
breath.)  Then  she  wondered  there  was  no  tennis-court 
at  the  cottage,  for  Mr.  Alliston  had  been  such  a  good 
player  in  old  days,  and  so  much  in  request  that  it  had 
been  very  difficult  to  secure  him.  Did  Miss  Fingal 
know  anything  of  Mrs.  Alliston's  children?  Of  course 
Lady  Hester  was  devoted  to  them,  but  it  was  very  sad 
that  they  should  be  brought  up  without  either  parent, 
for  if  Mr.  Alliston  married  the  actress  who  had  been  in 
the  divorce  case,  he  could  not  very  well  claim  the  chil- 
dren. It  was  really  a  good  thing,  but  now  their  mother 
was  dead  he  might  feel  a  good  deal  about  them,  and 
want  them,  though  unless  he  married  again  he  would 
not  know  what  lo  do  with  them,  poor  little  things. 

Miss  Fingal  heard  her  with  dismay  at  first,  then  she 
remembered  telling  Jimmy  of  the  callers  of  last  year 
and  his  advice,  that  she  should  put  up  a  board  with 
"No  visitors  wanted,"  and  amused  herself  by  thinking 
how  surprised  they  would  be  if  they  saw  it. 

Luckily  there  were  no  more  interruptions.  The  resi- 
dents were  flocking  back  from  their  London  dissipa- 
tions, but  they  left  Miss  Fingal  alone.  They  were  not 
given  to  much  calling  till  later  in  the  year,  and  it  was 
not  yet  time  to  send  out  invitations  for  their  country 
entertainments.  So  she  went  about  the  cottage  and 
the  garden,  happy  and  busy.  The  rooms  upstairs  were 
ready;  she  avoided  telling  herself  why,  she  gave  Burdett 
and  Mrs.  Webb  no  hint  of  what  might  be  done  with 
them.  Along  the  passage  was  her  own  room,  easy  to 
get  to,  and  from  the  dressing-room  window — she  always 
left  the  door  open — she  could  hear  the  enchanting  sounds 
of  the  garden.  It  was  looking  its  best:  the  trees  had 
not  lost  their  freshness  though  July  had  well  set  in,  the 
crimson  ramblers  were  a  mass  of  bloom,  there  were 
fuchsias  and  hollyhocks  and  bushes  of  southernwood, 
and  all  manner  of  old-fashioned  growths  beside  modern 
ones,  and  beyond  the  lawn  there  was  a  fairy  bed,  a 
mixture  of  smallest  flowers  that  she  looked  at  lovingly, 
thinking  the  children  would  like  it.  But  the  greatest 


Miss  Fingal  233 

joy  of  all  was  the  acacia-tree  in  the  middle  of  the  little 
lawn,  it  was  in  full  flower  and  the  petals  fell  like 
heavenly  kisses.  And  there  was  the  orchard!  The 
apples  had  formed,  there  were  little  windfalls  already; 
the  hens  ran  after  them  or  were  frightened  and  clucked 
and  ran  away.  At  the  far  end  against  the  wall — by  a 
moss-grown  wall  that  was  at  right  angles  to  the  fence 
from  which  uncle  John's  barbed  wire  had  been  removed 
— there  was  a  little  seat.  In  the  winter  it  had  been 
riddled  and  rotted  by  the  rains;  but  now  Webb  had 
made  a  new  one,  with  a  trellis  roof  to  it,  that  was 
already  covered  by  a  flowering  creeper,  and  nasturtiums 
climbed  the  side-posts.  She  sat  and  looked  at  the 
apple-trees  in  the  foreground  and  the  green  tangle 
farther  off.  If  presently  the  children  came  .  .  .  but 
how  vague  were  her  happiest  dreams — there  seemed  to  be 
a  screen  before  them,  a  misty  screen  through  which  she 
could  not  see  clearly,  and  yet  she  knew  that  behind  it 
were  the  wonderful  possibilities.  .  .  . 

Jimmy  wrote  to  tell  her  that  he  had  heard  nothing 
of  his  people;  he  supposed  they  were  still  in  Paris; 
Bertha  had  returned  to  her  flat:  she  had  been  for  a 
little  run  in  Normandy  with  one  of  her  country  cousins. 
She  had  brought  back  some  sketches  and  was  busy  paint- 
ing; he  didn't  think  she  was  much  of  an  artist,  but  it 
amused  her  to  call  her  sitting-room  a  studio,  and  she 
had  to  do  something  to  keep  up  its  reputation.  That 
was  all.  There  was  nothing  about  Dick ;  she  had  not 
expected  there  would  be,  but  her  thoughts  had  rushed 
to  him  when  she  saw  Jimmy's  writing,  and  her  eyes  had 
searched  eagerly  for  a  chance  mention  of  his  name.  In 
the  last  few  days,  here  in  the  rooms  and  garden  that 
seemed  to  be  full  of  consciousness  of  him — of  him  at 
his  gayest  and  happiest — the  long  summer  days  and  the 
soft  twilights  pleaded  his  cause,  and  again  she  wished 
she  had  been  different  in  her  manner  to  him,  for  he  had 
suffered — it  was  written  on  his  face,  she  ached  to  re- 
member it.  Besides,  Linda  had  not  been  angry  with 
him,  and  Jimmy,  who  had  been  fond  of  Linda,  made 
excuses  for  him — why  should  she  be  so  intolerant? 
Perhaps  it  was  that  until  this  last  year  she  had  lived 


234  Miss  Fingal 

far  off  the  track  of  happenings  such  as  that  which 
wrecked  Linda's  life,  and  it  had  an  exaggerated  effect 
on  her.  She  had  known  of  them,  of  course,  but  only 
from  newspapers  and  novels;  coming  near  to  one  had 
startled  her,  and  thrown  it  out  of  proportion.  Jimmy 
had  remarked  that  Dick  was  not  the  only  man  who  had 
bolted  with  a  woman  .  .  .  and  if  Cherry  Ripe  was 
common  she  was  very  pretty.  She  had  not  liked  her 
that  day  in  Bedford  Square,  but  she  had  realised  her 
attraction,  and  the  impulsive  element  in  her  character 
that  had  sent  her  to  Linda  and  later  to  Linda's  friend. 
She  understood  now  why  Dick  had  not  gone  back  to 
Linda;  he  knew  that  Linda  wouldn't  have  let  him 
make  love  to  her  again — there  were  some  things  which 
were  impossible,  and  that  was  one  of  them.  She  might 
have  gone  on  loving  him — she  did;  and  if  she  had  only 
been  angry  with  him  she  might  have  lived,  but  she  had 
been  starved,  because  it  was  impossible  that  she  could 
ever  be  anything  to  him  again.  He  had  not  loved  her 
enough  to  be  faithful:  and  she  could  not  live  without 
him,  nor  share  him  with  another  woman  .  .  .  why  did 
he  go  to  the  farm?  And  why  did  seeing  him  the  other 
day  paralyse  her?  She  didn't  want  to  think  of  him — 
she  tried  not;  but  she  couldn't  get  away  from  him.  .  .  . 
She  went  through  all  the  rooms  again.  She  felt  that 
they  were  waiting  too — the  drawing-room  with  its  fresh 
chintzes  and  masses  of  flowers,  the  pile  of  books  she  had 
brought  down,  and  the  music  on  the  open  piano  ...  if 
only  Dick  would  not  come  into  her  thoughts.  .  .  . 

It  was  late  afternoon,  she  had  been  a  week  at  the 
cottage.  It  struck  her  suddenly  that  she  would  go  and 
look  at  the  iron  gates  which  the  children  would  enter 
if  they  came  to  Beechwood.  She  stole  out  of  the  house, 
just  as  she  had  in  the  dark  last  winter;  but  now  it  was 
in  the  mellow  light  of  summer — across  the  green  and 
past  the  pond  and  the  clump  of  trees  and  on  till  she 
came  to  the  Beechwood  wall.  On  the  side-walk  by  the 
road  there  was  fresh  fine  gravel,  it  crunched  under  her 
thin  shoes.  She  sat  down  before  she  came  to  the  gates 
on  one  of  the  wayfarer  seats,  and  thought  again  of  that 


Miss  Fingal  235 

unexpected  meeting  in  Whitehall:  she  was  always  going 
over  it.  She  wished  she  had  not  seen  him.  And  the 
strange  thing  was  that  every  now  and  then  her  heart 
lingered  over  it  with  something  that  was  like  secret 
joy.  His  step  and  bearing  were  so  alert  ...  he  had 
such  bright  eyes  and  a  wonderful  face.  She  didn't 
wonder  that  Linda  had  loved  him,  and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  think  that  he  had  meant  to  be  wicked  or  cruel ; 
it  was  not  fair  to  judge  him  as  one  judged  other  people. 
She  turned  and  put  her  arms  on  the  back  of  the  seat 
and  rested  her  face  on  them — there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen  up  or  down  the  lonely  road,  and  it  was  good  to 
think  of  him.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  from  behind  the  wall,  a  little  way  off 
but  distinctly  in  the  garden,  she  heard  a  child's  voice, 
calling,  "Janet — Janet,  I  want  you " 

She  started  to  her  feet,  a  cry  escaped  her  lips. 

"They  have  come — they  are  here!"  she  stood  irreso- 
lute, wondering  whether  to  go  in  at  the  gates  and  ask 
if  she  might  see  them,  or  to  wait — always  there  was 
waiting:  but  how  could  she — how  could  she! 

"They  have  come!  They  have  come!"  She  laughed 
for  sheer  joy.  She  clasped  her  hands  on  her  breast  and 
listened — listened.  There  was  not  a  sound.  But  she  had 
heard — quite  plainly — she  had  heard  Sturdie  call  to  Janet. 

She  hesitated,  then  turned  and  fled  swiftly  along  the 
road  again — hurrying  to  the  cottage.  She  carried  her 
joy  into  it,  her  brimming-over  happiness,  the  vanishing 
of  all  her  fears,  the  underlying  dread  that  had  seized 
her  at  intervals  lest  Lady  Hester  should  take  them 
away  to  the  other  end  of  the  world. 

The  children  had  come!  They  were  at  Beechwood, 
only  a  little  way  off,  to-morrow  she  would  see  them. 
They  had  come — they  had  come !  .  .  .  then  she  gave  her- 
self up  to  outward  influences — to  the  greenness  of  the 
trees  and  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  the  softness  of  the  air. 
She  thought  of  the  orchard,  and  the  chicken-run,  the 
fat  white  hens  would  be  going  to  roost  in  an  hour's 
time,  the  children  would  be  asleep  at  Beechwood.  .  .  . 
And  peace  took  hold  of  her,  a  sense — a  promise — a 
certainty  of  happiness  to  come. 


236  Miss  Fingal 

Half  the  night  she  lay  awake  thinking,  and  yet  not 
thinking  so  much  as  blissfully  feeling  the  air  steal  in 
upon  her,  while  the  dark  sky  without  looked  down — it 
was  looking  down  on  the  children  at  Beechwood;  here 
and  there  fitfully  the  stars  came  out,  as  if  they  too 
would  see  the  little  faces  with  closed  eyes  peacefully 
sleeping.  She  saw  the  dawn  rise,  and  the  trees  that 
had  been  watching  for  it  grow  distinct — they  knew, 
and  the  drowsy  flowers  knew,  the  whole  world  knew ! 
oh!  the  infinite  relief,  the  blessedness  of  it — her  full 
heart  could  hardly  carry  its  own  happiness. 

She  wondered  now  that  she  had  not  had  courage 
to  go  up  to  the  house  and  ask  for  them,  but  she  had 
never  entered  it,  never  been  inside  the  gates,  and  though 
she  liked  Lady  Gilston  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  her: 
she  was  cold,  and  would  have  smiled  all  down  her 
thin  aquiline  nose,  and  Sir  James  would  have  been 
fussy,  and  the  children  might  have  been  tired  after  their 
journey  and  going  to  bed.  It  was  better  to  wait. 

The  early  morning  post  came,  it  brought  a  letter  from 
Jimmy;  he  had  heard  the  night  before,  too  late  to  tele- 
graph, that  the  "whole  lot  of  them,  including  Linda's 
children,  had  come  back  from  Paris  and  gone  on  to 
Wavercombe."  Burdett,  too,  brought  in  a  message  from 
Mrs.  Webb  that  she  thought  Miss  Fingal  would  like  to 
know  that  Sir  James  and  Lady  Gilston  had  arrived  at 
Beechwood.  There  was  no  mistake.  They  had  come ! 
She  wondered  what  she  could  do  next,  whether  she 
could  go  and  ask  if  she  might  see  them,  and  how 
early  that  would  be  possible. 


XI. 


THE  difficulty  was  solved  by  Lady  Gilston,  who  walked 
in  an  hour  after  breakfast. 

"I  was  at  the  Post  Office  and  heard  you  were  here," 
she  explained.  "I  hope  you  don't  mind  so  early  a 
visitor." 

"Oh  no — no,  I  am  glad — I  have  wanted  to  see  you 
so  much." 

The  visitor  looked  at  her  with  surprise;  this  was  a 
more  animated  young  woman  than  the  one  she  remem- 
bered. "What  a  charming  room  this  is,"  she  said. 

"It  is  all  ready,"  Miss  Fingal  answered  inconse- 
quently. 

"Ready?"  The  visitor  was  a  little  puzzled.  "Oh 
yes,  you  have  come  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and  I 
hear  you  came  in  your  own  car." 

"Yes,  in  the  car."  She  could  hardly  speak  co- 
herently. 

"I  hope  you  have  quite  got  over  your  horrid 
accident  ?" 

"Oh  yes " 

"I  was  so  sorry  not  to  see  you  in  London.  I  sent 
Lord  Stockton  to  explain  why  I  had  to  go  away  so 
suddenly." 

"He  came  and  told  me — you  had  to  go,  because  of 
Linda's  children."  She  was  longing  to  get  to  them — to 
mention  them. 

"I  knew  you  were  interested,  and  would  like  to  hear 
about  them." 

"I  am  longing  to  hear" — breathlessly. 

"Lady  Hester  knows  how  kind  you  were  to 
Linda " 

237 


238  Miss  Fingal 

"Oh,  it  was  nothing.  Do  tell  me  about  the  chil- 
dren." She  tried  to  hide  her  impatience,  but  her  voice 
betrayed  it. 

Lady  Gilston  wondered  vaguely  what  had  happened 
to  Miss  Fingal;  she  was  eager  and  almost  emotional 
about  two  children  she  had  known  very  slightly.  And  she 
was  altogether  more  attractive  than  on  the  wintry  day 
when  she  had  sat  dumbly  facing  her  visitor;  the  poise 
of  her  head  and  that  way  of  doing  her  hair  suited  her; 
she  had  soft  eyes  and  beautiful  lashes.  Lady  Gilston 
was  sensitive  to  right  effects.  The  simple  morning 
frock  was  well  made,  and  the  room,  which  had  been 
Linda's,  was  just  the  same,  no  inferior  taste  had  spoilt 
it.  Really  Miss  Fingal  was  a  pleasant  surprise,  a  vast 
improvement  on  her  uncle.  Dorothy  and  Winifred 
would  like  her  and  it  would  Fe  easy  to  send  them  to 
the  cottage.  Probably  she  would  be  very  good  to  Linda's 
children,  which  would  be  a  great  relief.  "You  know, 
of  course,  that  their  grandmother  carried  them  off  to 
Mentone:  she  went  there,  I  am  afraid  chiefly  to  be 
near  Monte  Carlo.  She  was  very  unfortunate;  luckily 
there  was  a  Mr.  Lindlay,  an  Argentine  millionaire,  who 
persuaded  her  to  go  away  from  the  place.  He  followed 
her  to  Paris  and  she  married  him.  Then  it  turned 
out  that  he  had  three  children  of  his  own — he  had  said 
nothing  about  them  and  she  had  never  dreamt  of  ask- 
ing— naturally  he  objected  to  step-grandchildren.  She 
was  in  despair;  so  she  telegraphed  to  us.  The  result  is 
that  she  has  gone  to  the  Argentine  with  him  and  Linda's 
children  are  thrown  entirely  on  our  hands." 

Miss  Fingal's  heart  was  beating.  "But  you  would  not 
have  liked  them  to  go  with  her — you  might  never  have 
seen  them  again." 

"Well — I  tried  to  argue  with  him  but  he  was  a  firm 
man.  I  dislike  firm  men,"  Lady  Gilston  said  with  a  hard 
sweet  smile,  "and  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them — he  wouldn't  even  settle  money  on  them,  and 
Hester  had  lost  all  hers — and  theirs  too.  I  sent  for  my 
husband,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  there  came  the  threat 
of  complications  in  Eastern  Europe  with  the  Austrian 
affair.  People  seemed  to  think  it  might  be  serious,  so  he 


Miss  Fingal  239 

thought  it  better  to  go  to  Lausanne  at  once  and  fetch 
back  our  two  girls,  who  were  at  school  there,  and 
Mr.  Lindlay  made  it  an  excuse  to  hurry  his  new  wife  off 
to  South  America  and  left  the  children  with  me." 

"Was  she  very  unhappy  at  parting  with  them?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  She  was  infatuated  with  him. 
I  believe  it  happens  sometimes  on  the  bridge  between 
middle  age  and  old  age — some  one  said  that  to  me  in 
Paris — grandchildren  made  her  look  and  feel  old,  and  of 
course  they  were  a  great  responsibility.  Unfortunately 
there  was  no  one  to  take  them  but  ourselves." 

"But  you  will  love  them — you  knew  their  mother  so 
well." 

"Oh  yes,  poor  little  things;  but  really  I  didn't  want 
to  start  a  nursery  again,  my  two  girls  have  grown  up. 
Dorothy  will  come  out  next  year,  and  my  husband  has 
just  been  asked  to  stand  for  a  seat  that  is  likely  to  be 
vacant  shortly.  I  am  afraid  I  feel  the  children  an 
anxiety,  as  he  does — and  of  course  a  great  expense " 

Miss  Fingal  sprang  forward:  "Give  them  to  me,"  she 
said. 

"Give  them  to  you!" 

"Yes — to  me — give  them  to  me,"  Miss  Fingal  re- 
peated. It  was  an  entreaty — a  wild  entreaty. 

"But  I  don't  understand " 

"I  have  no  one  belonging  to  me — I  would  give  the 

world  to  have  them "  she  held  out  her  hands,  her 

eyes  were  shining.  "This  is  what  it  all  means " 

"What— what  means?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  explain — I  have  been  possessed  by  them 
— waiting — dreading  lest  they  should  go  away  out  of 
sight " 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Fingal!" 

"Their  mother  would  trust  me.  Let  me  have  them. 
Let  them  be  my  children " 

"But  isn't  this  just  a  sudden  impulse?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I've  been  waiting  for  them,  I 
have  indeed — longing  for  them — thinking  of  them  day 
and  night — getting  ready — won't  you  give  them  to  me? 
Won't  you  let  me  have  them?" 

"I  think,  first,  I  must  speak  to  my  husband " 


240  Miss  Fingal 

"Tell  him  all  I  say — that  there  is  nothing — nothing  I 
would  not  do  for  them." 

"It  would  be  a  great  thing  for  the  children,  and  this 
is  such  a  charming  cottage — they  might  be  a  comfort  to 
you " 

"They  would  be  life — the  world  to  me — when  will  you 
tell  me?  Oh,  dear  Lady  Gilston,  I  can't  wait  any  more, 
I  long  for  them  so." 

"It's  too  wonderful  of  you.  Won't  you  come  and  see 
us  this  afternoon?  We  shall  have  talked  it  over  by  then, 
and  you  will  have  had  time  to  realise  whether  it  is  not, 
as  I  say,  a  generous  impulse." 

"Yes,  I  will  come,  but  it  is  no  impulse — it  is  what  I 
have  been  living  for " 

Lady  Gilston  looked  at  her  wonder-struck.  "I  think 
it  is  too  beautiful  of  you,"  she  said. 

"Oh!  no " 

"It's  the  sort  of  thing  Linda  might  have  done.  But 
I  will  go  back  and  we  will  talk  it  over  with  him.  He 
says  you  are  a  very  generous  woman:  I  heard  about  the 
cottages  at  Leesbury " 

"Oh!  the  cottages!"  impatiently,  "because  I  did  not 
let  those  poor  old  things  get  wet  in  the  rain  and  shiver  in 
the  cold  through  the  winter — I  have  only  saved  myself 
from  feeling  wicked  and  unkind.  But  these  children 
would  give  me  such  happiness,  such  joy."  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Lady  Gilston  felt  that  she  must  hurry  back  and  tell 
her  husband  of  this  surprising  and  really  providential 
proposal:  for  she  felt  it  to  be  one.  "I  will  expect  you 
soon  after  four:  we  shall  both  be  there  then."  She 
looked  into  Miss  Fingal's  eyes  once  more  and  thought 
that  she  could  almost  love  this  strange  woman. 

j 
"She  is  a  most  extraordinary  creature,"  she  told  Sir 

James;    "I    am    certain    she    would    be    good    to    them, 

and  it  would  be  a  godsend  if  she  took  them  off  our 

hands." 

"I  wonder  you  didn't  consent  at  once." 

"I  felt  that  you  ought  to  be  consulted,  James,  that  it 

was  due  to  you."    She  always  gave  people  their  due. 


Miss  Fingal  241 

"You  have  been  most  kind  and  generous  to  my  relations. 
Hester  was  a  drag  on  you  for  years " 

"Oh  no — and  now  she  has  married  well.  I  am 
delighted,  my  dear  Augusta,  if  I  have  been  of  use  to  her 
and  given  you  any  satisfaction.  I  feel  that  if  Miss 
Fingal  takes  the  children  off  your  hands  it  will  be  an 
immense  relief  to  you,  especially  with  Dorothy  coming 
out  next  season."  He  considered  for  a  moment.  "The 
only  thing  against  it  is  that  she  has  seemed  a  little — 
well,  a  little  coming  on  with  Jimmy  lately.  I  should  be 
sorry  if  it  interfered  with  that  possibility." 

Lady  Gilston  smiled,  the  clear-cut  smile  that  always 
seemed  to  Sir  James  to  be  one  of  the  marks  of  her  high 
breeding — he  was  proud  of  it.  "I  don't  think  it  will," 
she  answered. 

"We  had  a  very  pleasant  party  at  the  Carlton  just 
before  I  went  over  to  Paris.  I  noticed  that  she  always 
looked  pleased  when  he  talked  to  her,  and  she  called 
him  Jimmy  freely — quite  freely.  And  he  is  taking  life 
seriously  at  last.  He  has  paid  his  debts  and  is  working; 
I've  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  really  working." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it."  She  took  up  some  coloured 
embroidery.  "But  don't  be  afraid  that  if  Miss  Fingal 
adopts  the  children  it  will  interfere  with  his  matrimonial 
prospects:  frankly,  James,  I  don't  think  she  is  likely  to 
fall  in  love  with  him  any  more  than  Linda  did — she  was 
very  fond  of  him,  but  she  didn't  want  to  marry  him." 
There  was  a  little  note  of  superiority  in  her  tone,  and  Sir 
James  knew  it:  he  knew  that  she  was  thinking  that 
Jimmy  was  a  nice  boy,  but  he  was  not  "one  of  us." 
Lady  Gilston  felt  that  Miss  Fingal  was,  and  wouldn't 
marry  Jimmy.  People  made  all  manner  of  marriages, 
but  unless  money  drove  them  to  it  there  were  still  those 
who  held  aloof.  Money  had  driven  her  to  marry  Sir 
James;  she  was  glad  of  it,  she  had  bought  peace  and 
comfort;  and  affection  as  well  as  gratitude  had  grown  up 
in  her  heart.  But  with  Miss  Fingal  it  was  different. 

Oh,  the  exquisite  hours  of  that  day,  .  .  .  she  wove  all 
her  dreams  into  them.  They  were  filled  with  anticipa- 
tion, for  the  children  would  be  hers,  she  knew  it;  they 


242  Miss  Fingal 

would  come  to  the  cottage,  to  Linda's  cottage — their 
mother's  home.  They  would  patter  up  and  down  the 
stairs  and  along  the  floors  of  the  happy  rooms;  she 
would  hear  their  little  voices  in  the  morning,  through  the 
open  window  when  they  were  in  the  garden;  they  would 
run  beside  the  flower-beds,  over  the  lawn,  and  play 
under  the  acacia-tree.  She  would  get  heaps  of  toys  for 
them,  and  ponies — of  course  they  must  have  ponies,  and 
go-carts — they  should  have  everything  in  this  wide  and 
happy  world,  if  Lady  Gilston  and  Sir  James  said  that  she 
might  have  them.  To-day — this  very  day — they  would 
be  hers — hers!  .  .  .  She  would  take  them  along  the 
flagged  path — the  very  stones  would  know  the  tread  of 
their  little  feet — one  on  either  side  of  her,  holding  their 
hands — little  hands  that  would  curl  up  like  soft  sensitive 
shells  in  hers.  .  .  .  When  they  saw  the  orchard,  and  the 
fat  white  hens  strutting  about  under  the  apple-trees, 
they  would  give  cries  of  delight — she  could  hear  them; 
they  would  pick  up  the  windfalls,  and  very  white  pebbles, 
and  tufts  of  seeded  grass,  and  pink-tipped  daisies,  and  bits 
of  clover,  and  all  manner  of  things  that  children  loved, 
and  bring  them  to  the  summer-house  that  Webb  had 
made — how  clever  it  was  of  Webb  to  have  made  a  rough 
table  and  fasten  it  down  in  front  of  the  seat  so  that  it 
could  not  be  thrown  over.  The  children  would  put  all 
their  treasures  on  it.  "Oh!  my  dears,  my  dears!  you 
shall  be  so  happy!"  And  then  Miss  Fingal — the  Miss 
Fingal  that  had  been — pulled  herself  together  and  looked 
round,  and  wondered  how  she  divined  all  this,  but 
there  were  things  that  all  children  did;  one  knew  about 
them  instinctively.  She  considered  how  she  would  go  to 
Beechwood,  whether  she  would  go  in  the  car — but  she 
shook  her  head;  Linda  had  not  had  one — she  would 
walk  there  just  as  Linda  used.  Every  step  of  the  way 
would  be  like  going  towards  a  shining  city  that  held  her 
heart's  desire.  .  .  .  She  wondered  how  early  she  could 
go?  Lady  Gilston  had  said  after  four;  she  would  get 
there  at  a  quarter-past.  She  would  walk  slowly  and  sit 
on  one  of  the  wayfarer  seats  if  she  were  too  soon — 
perhaps  she  would  hear  their  voices  again.  .  .  .  And  then 
she  would  enter  the  high  gates;  they  would  be  standing 


Miss  Fingal  243 

open,  ready  for  the  car — she  had  seen  them  open  once, 
last  winter  when  a  cart  was  entering — she  would  walk 
up  the  avenue  and  then  .  .  . 

The  afternoon  came  at  last.  It  was  time  to  put  on 
her  hat.  In  the  glass  she  saw  her  eyes  full  of  expec- 
tancy, her  usually  pale  face  flushed  with  excitement,  and 
she  held  out  her  hands.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear  Heaven!  she  was 
half  afraid.  .  .  .  She  went  once  more  to  the  rooms  beyond 
the  passage — they  were  ready — ready — waiting — she  had 
carried  flowers  to  them  only  an  hour  ago — then  down- 
stairs and  out  of  the  cottage,  the  white  gate  closed  with 
a  click,  and  she  had  started  on  the  wonderful  way — 
every  footstep  was  a  promise,  a  joy.  .  .  .  When  she  reached 
the  wall  she  sat  down  on  the  bench,  but  no  sounds  came 
from  the  garden;  it  didn't  matter,  they  were  probably 
resting,  perhaps  they  were  being  made  ready  to  see 
her.  .  .  .  And  then  some  nervousness  took  possession  of 
her  and  her  feet  lagged  as  she  went  the  last  bit,  through 
the  iron  gates,  and  along  the  avenue.  She  looked  up  at 
the  high  beeches  and  elms  and  prayed,  "Let  me  have 
them,"  for  surely  the  trees  here  were  her  friends  too? 
She  rang  the  bell  at  the  important  entrance,  her  voice 
trembled  as  she  asked  for  Lady  Gilston. 

A  long  cool  pleasant  room,  with  many  flowering  plants, 
and  comfortable  sofas,  and  books,  and  evidences  of  being 
lived  in  by  people  of  Lady  Gilston's  type,  rather  than 
Sir  James's,  and  Lady  Gilston  herself  sitting  near  a  tea- 
table,  the  inevitable  tea-table,  with  a  very  bright  high 
silver  kettle  on  it,  and  near  it  another  table  loaded  with 
cakes:  it  went  through  her  that  it  was  a  little  sideshow 
of  the  sort  that  Jimmy  loved. 

Lady  Gilston  came  forward  with — "There  you  are. 
And  first  you  will  have  some  tea?  I  am  so  glad  to 
see  you  .  .  .  my  husband  will  be  here  directly — it  is  the 
Sessions  Day,  and  he  had  to  go." 

She  sat  down  and  looked  out  of  the  three  wide  open 
French  windows  facing  her.  There  was  a  terrace,  then 
some  flower-beds  and  a  lawn — a  beautiful  lawn  that 
stretched  to  some  high  trees  and  a  wood  at  the  back. 

"I  want  you  to  see  my  girls,"  Lady  Gilston  said, 
"but  they  have  gone  to  the  Tower  House  this  after- 


244  Miss  Fingal 

noon.  Lady  Francis  is  getting  up  a  bazaar,  and  they 
have  promised  to  help  all  they  can.  You  must  come 
and  see  them  some  other  day,  or  let  them  go  to  you."" 

"I  should  like  to  see  them,"  she  managed  to  say. 

Luckily  when  Sir  James  entered  he  came  straight  to 
the  point. 

"My  dear  Miss  Fingal — I'm  delighted  to  see  you. 
Lady  Gilston  has  told  me  of  your  very  remarkable 
offer.  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say.  .  .  .  Yes,  my 
dear,  some  tea,  not  too  strong.  .  .  .  You  heard  of  Lady 
Hester's  marriage?  The  three  step-children  were  a  most 
unexpected  blow,  but  nothing  is  more  unexpected  than 
some  marriages.  I  feel  that  it  was  quite  natural  he 
shouldn't  want  Linda's  two,  who  were,  of  course, 
nothing  to  him."  He  hastily  took  a  cake. 

"Oh  yes,  it  was  quite  natural."  She  had  to  say 
something. 

"So  they  were  dumped  down  on  us,"  he  laughed. 
"Lady  Hester  is  a  clever  woman — very  charming,  but 
Mr.  Lindlay  was  absolutely  firm  about  the  children." 

"Let  me  have  them,"  she  could  no  longer  control 
her  eagerness. 

"But  on  thinking  it  over  are  you  quite  sure?" 

"I  am  quite  sure — I  would  live  for  them." 

"You  are  the  most  generous  woman  I  know.  I  was 
saying  so  to  Bendish  yesterday.  I  saw  him  just  before 
we  came  here.  He  had  been  at  Leesbury  seeing  to  the 
cottages  with  the  doctor — Dr.  Wynne." 

"Oh  yes," — she  was  so  tired  of  hearing  about  the 
cottages.  "But  the  children " 

"Well,  my  own  feeling  is  that  it  is  impossible  to 
refuse  such  a  splendid  offer;  but  they  are  my  wife's 
relations,  it  must  be  as  she  says.  Do  I  understand 
that  you  will  provide  for  them  altogether?" 

"Yes,  I  will  provide  for  them  altogether.  They  shall 
have  everything  I  possess." 

He  smiled  and  stroked  his  nose  benevolentry.  "I 
think  you  must  settle  it  between  you."  He  looked  at 
his  wife. 

"May  I  have  them?    Will  you  trust  me?" 

Lady    Gilston    went    a    step    towards    her.     "I    think 


Miss  Fingal  245 

their  mother  would  love  to  give  them  to  you."  She  took 
Miss  Fingal's  hands  in  hers,  and,  almost  tenderly, 
kissed  her. 

"When  may  I — ?"  The  voice  was  husky,  the  grey 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"To-morrow — is  that  too  soon?" 

"Oh  no.  Everything  is  ready — I  should  like  to  have 
them  now " 

"They  shall  go  to  you  early  in  the  morning  with  all 
their  little  packages.  Would  you  like  to  see  them?" 

"May  I?"  her  heart  stood  still. 

"They  went  to  see  the  cows  milked.  They  will  be 
here  in  ten  minutes."  Sir  James  looked  at  the  wood 
beyond  the  lawn. 

A  dazed  expression  came  to  her  eyes.  "Let  me  go 
and  meet  them,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were  seeing  some- 
thing far  off.  "Tell  me  the  way." 

"We'll  take  you."  They  took  her  on  to  the  terrace 
and  half-way  across  the  lawn. 

She  stopped  suddenly.  "Let  me  go  alone,"  she 
entreated.  "You  are  very  very  kind,  but  I  should  like 
to  see  them  first  without  any  one " 

They  looked  at  her  as  if  they  knew.  "Go  through  to 
the  wood,"  they  said:  "at  the  end  there  is  a  gate,  a 
little  path  and  a  field,  they  will  come  that  way  from  the 
cow-shed " 

She  hurried  away  like  a  dream-woman. 

They  came  in  sight  when  she  had  passed  the  trees ;  they 
were  nearly  across  the  field.  She  stood  still  and  watched 
them — the  red-haired  Scotch  nurse  with  Bridget,  who 
had  tight  hold  of  her  hand,  walking  with  little  steps 
beside  her,  and  on  the  other  side  was  Sturdie.  He  had 
grown — his  green  sweater  was  shabby  and  too  small  for 
him,  his  little  soft  cap  was  pushed  back — she  could  see 
his  eyes  and  the  gold  of  his  hair.  The  sunshine  fell  on 
them.  Janet  lifted  Brigdet  in  her  arms  and  began  to 
sing  softly — 

"Wha'll  buy  my  caller  herrin'? 
They're  bonnie  fish  and  halesome  farin'; 

Buy  my  caller  herrin', 
New-drawn  frae  the  Forth." 


246  Miss  Fingal 

Then  all  things  fell  away.  She  was  by  a  mullioned 
window,  her  arms  reached  over  the  ledge,  she  heard 
the  sound  of  a  little  drum.  .  .  .  For  one  moment,  for 
just  one  moment — and  never  again — she  understood. 

They  saw  her.  Janet  put  Bridget  down,  they  ran  to 
her  and  were  not  shy  or  afraid.  She  fell  on  her  knees, 
her  arms  went  round  them:  and  infinite  rest  and  joy 
took  hold  of  her. 

"You  are  mine,"  she  said.  "You  are  mine — I  have 
been  waiting — waiting  all  this  time." 

The  children  looked  at  her — a  long  searching  look, 
then  drew  closer  and  were  content. 

"It  was  just  as  if  they  knew  you,  when  they  saw 
you  coming,"  Janet  said:  the  light  through  her  ruffled 
red-gold  hair  made  it  look  like  a  halo. 

They  were  back  in  the  drawing-room,  the  children  on 
either  side  of  her,  and  Janet  a  little  way  apart,  waiting 
to  see  what  would  happen  next. 

Miss  Fingal  was  bewildered,  hypnotised  by  what  had 
befallen  her.  "They  shall  be  happy,"  she  said.  "I  will 
live  my  life  for  them.  And  won't  you  let  me  take 
them  back  now?"  she  pleaded.  "I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't 
— couldn't  wait  till  to-morrow." 

"But  they  will  want  their  tea."  Lady  Gilston  had 
passed  through  the  emotional  stage  and  was  her  clear- 
headed self  again. 

"Let  me  take  them  to  the  cottage,  we  will  have  it 
together  there." 

They  could  see  her  trembling  lips.  It  was  impossible 
to  refuse  her  anything.  "You  shall  do  what  you  like," 
they  said. 

"But  it  will  take  half  an  hour  to  get  the  car  round," 
Sir  James  explained.  "They  can't  walk.  Their  per- 
ambulator hasn't  arrived  yet.  If  you  can  wait  till  the 
morning " 

"They  can  walk  quite  well,  Sir  James,"  Janet  put  in; 
"Sturdie  is  famous  on  his  feet — and  Bridget  can  do  a 
little  bit,  and  for  the  rest,  I'll  carry  her.  It's  not  above 
half  a  mile." 

Miss  Fingal  looked  at  her  gratefully,  then  turned  to 


Miss  Fingal  247 

him.  "You  are  very  kind,"  she  said  gently,  "but  I 
don't  think  I  could  sit  still  in  a  car,  and  as  Janet  says 
we  can  manage.  I  shall  never  forget  the  goodness  you 
have  both  shown  me,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  wait  any 

longer.     I  should " 

They  let  her  go:  they  took  her  to  the  gates  and 
watched  her  start,  Sturdie  with  his  hand  in  hers  and 
little  Bridget  with  Janet. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  it  is  true,"  she  said  when  she 
had  looked  at  them  asleep  in  their  little  white  beds; 
"I  can  hardly  believe  that  they  are  here." 

"But  they  are,"  Janet  answered  with  her  pleasant 
Scotch  accent,  "and  I  believe  I  thought  it  would  happen. 
I  have  been  waiting  all  along  for  something.  .  .  .  And 
the  rooms  are  just  as  Mrs.  Alliston  would  have  done 
them  herself,"  she  said  as  she  went  round,  soft  footed 
so  as  not  to  wake  them,  putting  away  their  things,  for 
they  had  been  sent  already  from  Beechwood :  a  last 
touch  to  that  most  blessed  day,  Aline  felt  it,  another 
proof  of  its  reality. 

She  heard  them  in  the  early  morning,  for  all  the 
cottage  windows  were  open  day  and  night,  chattering 
in  their  beds.  It  was  like  the  chirping  of  birds,  she 
thought,  as  she  turned  her  face  outwards  to  hear  them 
more  plainly.  Presently  when  they  were  dressed  they 
went  to  the  garden  for  a  little  run  before  breakfast. 
She  spoke  to  them  from  the  dressing-room  window, 
just  as  she  had  imagined  she  would.  Sturdie  looked 
up  and  called  to  her,  "There's  a  cobweb  in  the  rose- 
bush, and  Janet  saw  the  spider  hide  himself."  And 
Bridget  hesitated  as  if  making  up  her  mind  whether  she 
would  be  friendly. 

"When  are  you  coming?"  Sturdie  asked. 

"I  am  coming  now,  my  darlings,"  Aline  answered; 
"we  will  all  have  breakfast  together  out  of  doors,  under 
the  lovely  tree." 

She  wondered  if  it  could  be  her  own  self  who  went 
down  the  little  staircase,  and  put  to  them,  feeling  as  if 
the  object  of  her  life  had  been  accomplished. 

And  so  the  day  passed  and  the  next  and  the  next. 


248  Miss  Fingal 

She  took  them  out  in  the  car  once  or  twice,  along  the 
yellow  roads,  beside  the  dark  fir  woods,  but  it  was 
greater  pleasure  to  her  than  to  them,  for  they  liked  the 
garden  better,  with  the  flowers,  and  the  lawn  to  play  on, 
and  the  cool  shady  orchard,  with  the  green  little  apples 
above  their  heads  to  look  up  at,  and  all  the  white  hens 
that  clucked  and  strutted  away  from  them,  to  run  after. 
But  everything  was  still  like  a  dream  to  her,  or  like  a 
happy  part  in  a  play  that  she  was  acting. 

Mr.  Randall  called  on  the  third  day.  She  was  almost 
glad  to  see  him;  it  made  her  feel  that  everything  was 
true.  She  talked  to  him  with  her  mind  full  of  the  two 
little  figures  sitting  on  the  grass,  looking  at  the  picture- 
book — she  had  bought  it  at  the  post  office;  but  he 
thought  how  agreeable  she  was,  and  how  interested  in 
his  parish  news.  She  heard  about  the  recreation-room, 
and  the  bazaar  Lady  Francis  was  getting  up  for  the 
end  of  August.  People  had,  most  of  them,  arrived 
already  from  London  and  were  arranging  pleasant 
country  diversions,  he  hoped  the  poor  people  too  would 
profit  by  them.  He  rolled  his  words  along  his  tongue 
and  looked  at  her.  She  gave  him  a  cheque  towards 
expenses  for  something,  she  could  not  remember  for 
what;  but  it  didn't  matter,  and  she  smiled  at  him,  so 
that  he  felt  he  had  paid  a  welcome  visit  and  been 
appreciated. 

When  he  had  gone  she  sat  and  listened  to  the  children 
again,  to  their  voices  and  the  happy  noises  in  the  garden. 

And  Lady  Gilston  sent  the  two  schoolgirls  from 
Lausanne  to  see  their  new  neighbour.  They  were  nice 
shy  commonplace  things.  The  elder  one  had  only  just 
put  up  her  hair  and  the  other  one  still  had  a  pigtail. 
They  sat  and  looked  at  her,  for  the  old  Miss  Fingal 
manner  asserted  itself,  so  that  they  were  all  very 
silent.  Luckily  the  children  came  in  from  their  walk 
and  made  a  diversion.  They  too  were  shy,  but  the 
whole  atmosphere  was  restful  and  full  of  dormant  hap- 
piness, and  Aline  Fingal  said  to  herself:  "If  only  life 
might  always  be  like  this — but  there  is  more  to  come, 
and  it  will  be  different." 

Through  all  these  days  Dick  Alliston  was  insistently 


Miss  Fingal  249 

pushing  his  way  back  into  her  thoughts — day  and  night 
always  Dick  Alliston — and  with  him  came  a  haunting 
sense  that  he  ought  to  know  about  the  children,  where 
they  were  and  that  they  were  happy.  After  all  they 
were  his  children  as  well  as  Linda's,  and  though  he  had 
proved  that  he  was  not  a  desirable  guardian  he  probably 
thought  of  them  and  cared  for  them,  and  would  like  to 
hear  that  they  were  in  their  mother's  cottage.  She 
said  all  this  to  Bertha,  who  came  to  Beechwood  for  a 
week-end. 

Bertha  had  seen  and  heard  nothing  of  him  since  her 
return  from  the  country  cousins  and  Normandy.  "But 
I  should  leave  him  alone,"  she  remarked.  "Time  and 
silence  generally  settle  things  with  a  good  deal  of 
wisdom.  If  one  day  he  finds  out  and  writes  to  you,  I 
should  go  up  and  see  him — I  don't  think  he  would  come 
here."  She  felt  for  the  everlasting  cigarette-case.  "It's 
a  queer  thing  that  you  should  have  longed  for  them  so 
much — perhaps  Linda  wanted  you  to  have  them — it  may 
have  been  the  message  she  tried  to  send  you,  but  it 
was  too  late — she  may  have  taken  it  to  you." 

"A  fugitive  along  the  dark  road  from  the  farm.  .  .  . 
I  should  have  known " 

"There  are  so  many  things  in  us  we  don't  know  till 
something  drags  them  out,"  Bertha  said  and  struck  a 
match,  looked  at  its  flame  and  then  remembered  why 
she  wanted  it. 


XII. 


DICK  ALLISTON  was  obsessed  with  the  idea  of  going  to 
Eastern  Europe.  If  a  war  out  there  resulted  from  the 
murder  of  the  Archduke  Francis  Ferdinand — for  even 
then,  in  late  July,  few  people  thought  it  would  stretch 
westwards — he  wanted  to  be  in  it.  The  work  he  had  to 
do  now  was  too  easy,  he  had  seen  it  through;  there  was 
nothing,  as  he  told  one  of  his  collegues,  on  which  to 
exercise  much  intelligence,  and  probably  some  bigger 
fool  than  himself  who  would  be  glad  to  get  it.  He  had 
not  much  money  left;  but  he  cared  nothing  for  luxury 
or  even  for  comfort,  and  he  wanted  to  see  and  hear  more 
of  the  world  than  was  possible  from  a  Whitehall  window 
and  the  gossip  of  the  men  about  him.  He  was  a  drifter 
on  the  open  sea  of  chance  and  possibilities,  as  he  had  been 
since  the  day  when  the  divorce  court  had  stripped  him  of 
obligations.  He  had  made  over  most  of  what  remained 
of  his  moderate  fortune  for  the  benefit  of  Linda  and  the 
children,  but  so  carelessly  that  little  of  it  was  left ;  it  had 
gone  to  pay  Lady  Hester's  debts;  but  of  this  he  was 
not  aware.  The  children  had  been  given  to  Linda,  and 
he  had  no  power  over  them  while  she  lived.  He  had 
discovered  that  Linda's  death  in  a  sense  restored  his 
right  to  them,  but  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  claim  it, 
and  he  imagined  them  to  be  safe  with  their  grandmother, 
of  whose  vagaries  he  knew  little,  and  watched  over  to 
some  extent  by  Lady  Gilston,  for  whom  he  had  not  much 
liking  but  considerable  respect.  His  affection  for  them 
was  not  very  strong;  at  their  age  he  considered  children 
belonged  to  women:  he  had  to  wait  his  turn.  Meanwhile 
his  feeling  in  general  was  one  of  bafflement  and  dis- 
appointment though  his  temperament  carried  him  easily, 

250 


Miss  Fingal  251 

even  gaily,  through  what  to  other  men  must  have  been 
disheartening.  Ambition  in  the  usual  sense  he  had 
none,  desire  for  reputation  did  not  occur  to  him;  but 
he  had  capacity  and  energy  and  nerve,  and  as  yet  he  had 
done  nothing  that  gave  him,  as  he  put  it,  a  right  to  the 
world's  shelter  and  light  and  share  of  all  it  had  to  give. 

It  was  this  point  of  view  that  he  had,  not  without 
a  sense  of  amusement,  discussed  with  Jimmy  Gilston; 
who  had  promptly  called  it  rot,  and  been  sufficiently 
impressed  to  pass  it  on  to  Miss  Fingal.  Alliston  liked 
Jimmy,  but  he  had  regarded  him,  till  lately,  as  a  hope- 
less loafer,  who  cared  nothing  about  abstract  things,  so 
long  as  he  had  enough  money  or  credit,  and  sufficient 
ease.  "Dear  old  Jimmy,  you  would  refuse  to  get  up  to 
be  made  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  if  you  had  comfort- 
able rooms,  a  ten-pound  note,  and  a  jar  of  tobacco,"  he 
thought.  But  Alliston  did  care :  there  was  that  to  be 
said  for  him,  and  if  he  had  little  to  show,  he  had  thought 
out  questions,  wrestled  with  problems  that  were  in- 
soluble, and  attempted  flight  in  many  directions,  though 
nothing  gave  him  any  satisfaction  to  remember  save  his 
invention :  another  man  had  the  credit  and  the  profit 
of  it,  but  that  did  not  matter,  the  thing  was  done,  set 
going  and  of  use.  He  had  written  arresting  articles, 
but  their  effect  had  vanished  with  the  day  after  their 
appearance.  He  cursed  himself  occasionally  for  the 
time  he  had  spent  in  a  world  that  amused  itself  to  no 
profitable  end,  and  consoled  himself  by  thinking  that 
after  all  people  had  to  be  amused,  and  human  nature 
had  its  interest  in  the  byways  as  well  as  the  highways. 

He  left  the  office  at  five,  a  sultry  afternoon;  he  might 
have  done  so  sooner  but  a  man  had  been  anxious  to  go 
back  to  a  sick  wife :  he  dismissed  him  and  insisted  on 
taking  over  his  work.  There  were  large  headlines  to  the 
evening  papers,  big  letters  on  the  placards  the  newsboys 
held  in  front  of  them,  exaggerating  the  probable  out- 
come of  the  political  situation :  an  excitement  to  ad- 
venturous spirits  and  blase  loungers  at  clubs.  "It  will 
all  fizzle  out  as  usual,"  he  thought  as  he  went  down 
Victoria  Street  to  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores,  "but  I'll 
get  a  new  kit-bag  and,  if  there  is  a  row,  go  and  help  the 


252  Miss  Fingal 

little  fellow."  The  little  fellow  was  Servia — it  had  not 
yet  changed  its  consonant.  "I  must  see  the  children 
before  I  get  there  if  I  can  manage  it,"  he  thought,  as  he 
ran  down  the  steps  of  the  stores  ariH  hurried  towards 
Victoria.  .  .  .  He  was  nearly  there  when  he  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  Cissie  Repton. 

"Dickie!"  she  said  with  a  little  gulp,  "why,  Dickie 
darling,  how  are  you?  I  was  thinking  of  you  only  just 
now." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you.  Are  you  all  right?"  he  made 
a  little  movement  onwards. 

"You  mustn't  go  yet,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Come 
back  with  me." 

"I  have  no  time,"  he  said  firmly:  firm  good-humour 
was  the  right  line  with  Cherry  Ripe. 

"But  look  here,  it's  not  two  minutes  to  the  flat — my 
new  one,  you  have  not  seen  it  yet,  it  is  just  here.  Come 
on  and  don't  be  silly,  Dickie.  I  want  to  ask  you  about 
the  children  and  Miss  Fingal." 

He  was  arrested  at  that  and  she  saw  it. 

"What  do  you  know  about  Miss  Fingal,  and  do  you 
mean  my  children?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  I  do,  it  isn't  likely  I  should  care  for  any 
other."  They  walked  on  together. 

She  was  looking  her  best  and  knew  it.  The  soft  grey 
of  her  dress  suited  her,  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  Lord 
Stockton  had  told  her  that  she  was  like  a  Greuze;  the 
grey  hat  had  a  blue  knot  on  one  side,  the  little  bag  she 
carried  was  of  grey  suede,  her  shoes  were  grey.  The 
sun  was  kind  to  the  gold  of  her  hair  and  the  blue  of 
her  eyes,  she  was  a  little  flushed  and  her  lips  were  very 
red.  She  looked  like  a  bacchante  who  had  stolen  the 
best  attire  of  a  Quakeress.  She  was  growing  a  little 
plump,  too;  he  noticed  it  in  the  outline  of  her  figure, 
the  creamy  whiteness  of  her  throat  and  the  under  reach 
of  her  chin.  She  let  herself  into  the  flat,  and  led  the 
way  to  her  sitting-room.  It  looked  just  as  when  Lord 
Stockton  had  paid  his  memorable  visit;  the  same  masses 
of  flowers,  tall  palms,  a  singing  canary  in  the  window, 
muslin  curtains  and  sun-blinds  to  soften  the  light:  an 
inviting  alluring  room,  and  Cherry  Ripe  knew  it. 


Miss  Fingal  253 

"Will  you  have  some  tea,  or  a  cocktail,  dear?"  she 
asked.  "I  know  a  new  one." 

"Neither." 

She  sat  down  in  the  easy-chair,  took  off  her  hat,  threw 
it  to  a  corner,  and  fluffed  out  her  hair  with  her  hands, 
white  hands  that  were  not  well  shaped. 

"Have  a  cigarette?"  she  took  up  a  box  from  the  little 
table  beside  her  and  held  it  out. 

"No,"  he  said  quickly,  "nothing.  What  do  you 
know  about  Miss  Fingal?"  He  couldn't  bring  himself 
to  mention  the  children. 

"Not  much,  but  I  was  so  surprised  to  hear  that  you 
had  let  her  have  them,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  she  was 
your  sort." 

"When  did  you  see  her?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"We'll  come  to  that  in  a  minute.  Don't  be  so  sharp 
with  me."  She  held  out  her  hand:  he  looked  at  it  a 
little  disdainfully  and  drew  back. 

"Dickie,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  break  in  her  voice, 
"if  you  are  unkind  to  me  I  shall  break  down  and  cry." 
She  pulled  a  lace  handkerchief  from  a  fold  in  her  dress 
and  put  it  to  her  eyes. 

He  knew  she  was  acting — she  was;  but  she  felt  the 
part.  "Don't  cry,"  he  said. 

"I'm  a  precious  fool,  but  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you. 
Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?  You've  been  awfully  unkind, 
you  know." 

"Nonsense  I"  He  got  up  and  strode  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  looked  at  a  little  statuette  and  strode  back 
again. 

"But  you  are,"  she  said,  "very  unkind.  What  have 
I  done?" 

"You  are  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  and  I'm  bound  to 
resist  you,"  he  answered  impatiently  with  a  little  angry 
laugh. 

"You  needn't  unless  you  like " 

"What  do  you  know  about  Miss  Fingal?" 

"Why  did  you  let  her  have  the  children?" 

"Let  her  have  the  children!  My  children!  What 
do  you  mean?"  He  stopped  abruptly  in  front  of  her. 

"She  has  got  them." 


254  Miss  Fingal 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Aubrey  Wynne  told  me  the  other  day."  She  was 
getting  frightened. 

"How  did  she  get  them?" 

"I  don't  know,  Dickie.  Do  sit  down  and  don't  walk 
about  like  a  tiger  in  a  cage." 

"They  were  with  their  grandmother." 

"Were  they?"  she  said  in  a  helpless  tone  that  softened 
his  anger.  "I  only  know  that  Miss  Fingal's  got  them, 
and  I  didn't  think  that  she  was  your  sort,"  she  repeated. 

"How  did  she  get  them?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"How  did  Aubrey  Wynne  know?" 

"His  brother  told  him;  his  brother  is  looking  after 
some  cottages  Miss  Fingal  is  doing  up  at  Leesbury,  and 
some  old  lawyer-man  called  Bendish  is  helping:  that's 
how  Aubrey  got  at  it."  She  looked  up.  "He's  an 
awfully  nice  man  is  Aubrey's  brother." 

"Aubrey's  brother?    When  did  you  see  him?" 

"I  saw  him  the  day  Miss  Fingal  was  smashed  up  in 
the  train:  he  asked  me  to  bring  up  word " 

"My  God !     What  were  you  doing  at  Leesbury  ?" 

"It's  an  awfully  nice  place  for  a  spin,  Dickie  darling." 
She  had  betrayed  herself  and  tried  to  cover  it:  "I  know 
Miss  Fingal,  I  went  to  see  her  the  other  day." 

"Were  the  children  there  then?" 

"No,  I  suppose  they  hadn't  arrived,  but  she's  got 
them  now.  I  couldn't  think  why  you  should  let  her 
have  them." 

"The  whole  business  is  extraordinary,"  he  said.  "I 
shall  sift  it,  I  shall  find  out.  How  often  have  you  seen 
Miss  Fingal?" 

She  was  beginning  to  tremble  a  little. 

"Do  come  and  sit  down  and  be  calm,"  she  said. 

"How  often  have  you  seen  Miss  Fingal?"  he  per- 
sisted. 

"I  don't  know,  Dickie." 

"How  often,  I  say?" 

"Well,  let  me  see — twice." 

"The  other  day  you  went  to  see  her — do  you  mean 
in  Bedford  Square?" 


Miss  Fingal  255 

"Yes,  in  Bedford  Square,  rather  a  nice  old  house. 
Fancy  living  there  all  alone,  she  won't  know  how  to 
enjoy  herself.  I  should  like  a  house  like  that,  so  much 
more  respectable  than  this, — I  don't  know  how  it  is — we 
always  overdo  it  somehow." 

"And  the  other  time  you  saw  her — was  it  before  the 
train  smash  or  after  it?" 

"After   it." 

"When  she  was  being  carried  into  the  hotel?" 

"Yes " 

"Then  what  did  you  go  there  for?  Don't  lie  to  me, 
Cherry  Ripe,  I  shall  find  out.  Recollect  I  know  you, 
through  and  through."  He  said  it  without  anger  but 
with  a  curious  thrill  that  had  its  effect  upon  her. 

"I  went  to  see  a  friend." 

"What  friend?    Where?" 

"I  went  to  see  Linda  at  Highbrook  Farm,"  she  said 
in  a  low  defiant  voice. 

He  had  stood  still  before  her  waiting  for  her  answer; 
he  turned  away  abruptly  when  he  heard  it,  walked  a 
few  paces,  then  clutching  at  a  high  cabinet,  rested  his 
forehead  on  his  arm.  "You — you — went  to  see  her?" 
He  lifted  his  head  after  a  minute  and  went  back  to  her. 
"You  dared " 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  unkind,  Dickie  dear."  She 
trembled  with  fright. 

"Will  you  be  truthful  for  once?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
constrained  voice,  "and  tell  me  what  it  all  means?" 
He  almost  groped  his  way  towards  a  chair  near  her,  and 
sat  down. 

"I   suppose   I'd  better " 

"I  heard  that  some  strange  woman  went  to  see  her," 
he  said,  "the  landlady  told  me,  but  it  never  occurred  to 
me  by  any  possibility  that  it  could  be  you." 

"Well,  it  was,"  she  answered:  the  defiance  had  gone 
from  her  manner,  she  was  a  natural  human  being  hating 
to  see  how  much  he  was  hurt.  "I'd  seen  her  once 
before " 

"Where?" 

"The  day  the  case  was  heard — the  look  of  her — her 
voice — went  through  me  like  a  knife.  I  wouldn't  have 


256  Miss  Fingal 

done  it  if  I'd  known.  You  didn't  even  tell  me  you  were 
married  till  we'd  gone  on  a  goodish  bit  together,  and  no 
one  else  did." 

"Every  one  knew." 

"People  in  your  world  know  people  in  mine,  but  they 
don't  talk  about  their  wives,  they  think  they  are  some- 
thing apart — and  that  we  are/' 

"Go  on." 

"When  I  saw  her  face  that  day  I  hated  myself,  I 
thought  I  had  been  a  beast.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it 
if  I'd  known,  and  I  told  her  so." 

"You   told   her   so?" 

She  nodded.  "It  was  off  at  that  time — between  you 
and  me,  I  mean.  I  can't  think  why  you  didn't  go  back 
to  her.  You  didn't  stay  with  me  and  it  was  no  use 
making  two  of  us  miserable." 

"Two!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"She  was  fond  of  you  and  you  left  her  for  me.  I 
got  fond  of  you  and  you  left  me,  and  there  were  lots 
of  others  besides  me." 

"They  amounted  to  nothing.  No  one  was  anything 
to  me  but  that  one  woman — ever !" 

She  looked  up  startled.  "Oh!  Come,  Dickie,  you 
did  care  for  me  once,  or  you  are  a  born  liar!" 

"I  told  you  just  now  that  you  were  the  flesh  and  the 
devil — I  was  carried  away  by  you." 

"You  were  just  the  world  to  me!"  she  made  a  little 
movement  with  her  hands  that  was  pathetic. 

"And  so  it  made  a  devilish  trinity,"  he  said  scoffingly. 
"Cissie,  I  implore  you  to  tell  me  about  your  visit  to  my 
wife,  what  she  said  and  what  you  did?" 

"It  was  like  this."  She  answered  in  a  low  voice  that 
had  sweetness  in  it,  and  he  was  sensible  of  it.  "I've 
played  the  fool  with  heaps  of  men,  gone  the  whole  way 
with  them — I'm  just  speaking  truth  for  once,  Dickie 
dear,  I  swear  I  am — but  I  haven't  cared  for  any  of 
them  except  the  first  of  all,  and  he  left  me,  and  I 
wanted  to  die.  You  men  don't  know  what  you  cost  us 
girls,  if  we  care.  ...  I  took  it  out  of  those  who  came 
after,  for  I  found  I  could — I  just  loved  to  see  them  hurt. 
Then  you  came  and  I  got  caught.  Do  you  remember 


Miss  Fingal  257 

when  we  went  to  Fontainebleau,  all  that  time  I  would 
have  loved  to  lie  down  under  your  feet  and  let  you  walk 
on  me,  if  it  would  have  done  you  any  good — every 
minute  of  it,  I  was  like  a  hungry  woman  getting  food,  I 
wouldn't  have  changed  places,  not  with  an  angel  in 
heaven,  or  queen  of  any  place  on  earth.  And  you  saw 
it  and  began  to  tire — you  never  wanted  a  woman  after 
you'd  got  her.  You  got  careless,  and  the  more  I  did 
things  for  you  the  less  you  cared.  ...  I  was  a  cursed 
fool!  And  then  the  divorce  was  coming  along.  It  was 
I  who  let  her  know — I  mean  after  you  and  I  were  back 
— I  wrote  letters  to  her  relations,  telling  them  about  our 
trip.  I  wanted  you  to  marry  me " 

"Marry  you!" 

"Lots  of  them  do;  and  I  was  making  heaps  of  money, 
and  smart  people  invited  me — women,  I  mean — thought 
me  good  enough  to  know.  But  directly  she  knew,  you 
took  on  and  made  a  fuss.  I  suppose  you'd  thought  she 
would  never  find  out " 

"Marry  you !"  he  repeated  under  his  breath. 

"And  you  dropped  me  after  we  came  back.  I'd  a 
world  of  trouble  to  make  you  come  near  me,  and  when 
you  did  you  made  it  plain  enough  you  hadn't  wanted  to. 
Then  I  heard  she  was  very  ill — I  got  at  everything 
through  Aubrey  Wynne — and  after  a  bit  that  she  wasn't 
likely  to  live.  She  told  his  brother  at  Leesbury  that 
she  wanted  to  live  because  of  the  children,  for  there 
wasn't  any  one  to  take  them  except  her  mother,  who 
didn't  want  them,  and  Lady  Gilston ;  but  she  didn't 
want  her  to  have  them.  Then  I  got  a  mad  idea  that 
if  she'd  let  me  have  them  it  would  be  all  right — and 
I'd  get  you  back!" 

"Let  you  have  them!     Great  Heaven!" 

"I've  made  such  a  lot  of  money,  Dickie,  you  don't 
know.  That  stockbroker  you  once  saw  me  with,  that 
man  Evans,  put  it  into  rubber — and  I  thought  if  I  could 
get  the  children  I  would  do  everything  on  earth  for 
them.  I  knew  you  hadn't  much  money  left,  and  I 
thought  if  I  went  there  she  would  'see  I  wasn't  as  black 
as  I  was  painted.  I  was  raving  mad  to  get  the  children 
— I  thought  it  would  wipe  out  everything,  and  I  could 


258  Miss  Fingal 

start  again,  and  I  wanted  you, — it's  no  good,  I  was  a  fool 
about  you,  a  raving  fool.  But  it  all  seemed  to  work  out 
till  I  got  there.  When  I  saw  her  I  just  hated  myself. 
It  was  no  good  of  course,  and  I  asked  her  to  forgive  me." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"And  then  you  saw  Miss  Fingal?" 

"I  was  in  the  car  and  she  was  carried  into  the  hotel 
on  a  shutter  or  something  as  I  passed  by.  I  stopped 
and  asked  what  it  was  all  about,  and  saw  Dr.  Wynne 
and  took  up  a  message  to  Miss  Fingal's  house.  And 
the  other  day  I  thought  I  would  go  up  and  see  if  she 
was  better,  and  somehow  we  got  talking  about  the 
children,  and  I  told  her  I  wanted  them.  But  she  seemed 
to  think — just  as  Linda  had  done.  I  know  it  was  a  mad 
thing  all  round  to  go  to  both  of  them — but  the  moment 
I  think  of  a  thing  I  am  always  in  such  a  hurry  to  do  it, 
feel  as  if  I  must  somehow,  or  I'll  miss  a  wonderful 
chance — everything  is  a  chance,  you  know,  and  you  can't 
tell  how  it  will  turn  out  beforehand." 

"You  have  the  children!"  He  was  too  bitter  and 
amazed  to  be  angry. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I?" 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  movement  that  made  her 
voice  falter. 

"I'd  put  everything  I've  got  on  them,  and  we  might 
go  away  to  the  other  side  of  the  world  and  start  with 
a  clean  slate." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  her? — the  Fingal,  I  mean?" 

"I've  only  seen  her  for  one  minute  in  my  life." 

"I  don't  see  that  she  has  any  business  with  them 
at  all.  She  is  nothing  to  you  and  you  are  nothing 
to  her." 

He  got  up  abruptly.     "I  must  go." 

"Why  must  you — why  do  you  treat  me  like  this? 
I'm  sick  of  it.  I'm  flesh  and  blood,  and  what  else  I 
am,  men  like  you  have  made  me.  The  children  would 
be  salvation  to  me,  and  you  needn't  think  I'm  not  good 
enough  to  marry.  Teddy  Stockton  wanted  to  marry  me 
the  other  day!" 

"Stockton  did!" 


Miss  Fingal  259 

"And  he's  got  a  place  in  the  country  and  a  title,  and 
lots  of  things  that  you  haven't.  I  was  good  enough  for 
him,  why  shouldn't  I  be  good  enough  for  you,  and  you 
would  have  me  in  your  power  for " 

"Why  didn't  you  take  Stockton?" 

"Didn't  want  him." 

"You  would  have  had  his  title  and  his  place  in  the 
country,"  he  snorted. 

"Well,  what  good  would  they  do  me?  I  went  down 
and  stayed  with  his  mother  and  sister — he  made  them 
have  me " 

"Good  Lord!  ...  Did  you  like  it?" 

"I  was  never  so  dull  in  my  life;  you  don't  catch  me 
walking  into  that  web,  I  should  have  got  used  to  it  in 
six  months — and  run  off." 

He  got  up.    "I  dare  say  you  would,"  in  a  tired  voice. 

"Look!  You  can't  leave  me  like  this?"  She  rose 
from  the  chair  and  stood  with  her  back  to  the  fireplace, 
afraid  to  move  a  step  towards  hfm. 

He  walked  across  the  room  and  back  again.  "What 
we  did  has  brought  on  a  Day  of  Judgment  for  us  both," 
he  said,  "but  it  was  she  who  suffered,  and  was  crucified 
for  our  sin :  though  what  I  did  to  you,  and  what  you  did 
to  me,  was  only  done  on  an  accursed  impulse.  Perhaps 
the  devil  saw  his  chance  and  snatched  at  us  both. 
Nothing  can  undo  it,  that's  the  tragedy  of  many  things 
besides  this :  repentance,  reparation  and  the  rest,  may 
give  us  some  sort  of  satisfaction,  but  they  don't  bring 
the  dead  to  life  or  put  back  the  clock.  ...  As  for 
you,  you  were  amusing  yourself  and  I  wasn't  the  first 
or  the  last,  but  just  one  of  a  series.  You  think  you 
cared " 

"I  did,  I  do !"  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"It  makes  it  better  for  you  but  worse  for  me." 

She  held  out  her  hands.  "Oh,  Dickie  darling — you 
don't  know " 

He  strode  away  and  then  back  again.  "We  mustn't 
see  each  other  any  more,  do  you  hear?  There  are 
limits  to  all  endurance." 

The  tears  fell  slowly  and  hopelessly  down  her  face; 
he  looked  at  them  curiously,  thinking  that  they  made 


260  Miss  Fingal 

her  attractive  and  were  not  disfiguring  as  tears  usually 
were  to  women.  And  her  beauty  and  the  passion  in 
her  voice  touched  the  lower  side  of  him;  he  hated 
himself  for  it,  but  it  was  so.  She  seemed  so  helpless, 
too,  in  her  distress.  He  went  a  step  towards  her — and 
turned  away.  "It's  no  good,"  he  said. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do? — tell  me  that, 
Dickie." 

"Do?" 

"I  feel  somehow  as  if  I  should  never  see  you  again." 

He  hesitated  before  he  answered. 

"I  shall  settle  up  about  the  children,  there  isn't 
likely  to  be  any  trouble  about  that — and  go  out  to 
Servia,  if  there  is  a  row,  and  do  my  best  to  stop  a  pro- 
miscuous bullet.  And  you — I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't 
marry  Stockton,  it  might  amuse  you.  He's  not  a  bad 
chap." 

"I  won't!    I  should  hate  it." 

"You  are  quite  right,  but — "  he  considered  a  moment, 
and  then  broke  out  abruptly,  "you  must  look  after  your 
own  future,  and — I'm  not  a  religionist,  as  you  know,  but 
it  pays  best  to  do  the  right  thing,  the  fair  and  square 
thing;  the  penalties  of  the  others  come  home  to  roost. 
That's  how  hell  is  contrived,  do  you  understand?  It's 
pretty  infamous  what  I  have  done" — he  added  to  himself 
rather  than  to  her.  "You  say  you've  plenty  of  money, 
is  it  properly  invested?" 

"Oh  yes,  it's  all  settled  till  I  die,"  she  answered 
hopelessly. 

"And  you  can  always  get  a  turn  if  you  want  it?  I 
wish  you  would  get  some  other  work,  something  that 
would  be  better  than  singing  to  fools  and  loafers  who  try 
to  kill  time  till  the  devil  is  ready  for  them — I  can't  think 
what  you  live  here  for — "  he  looked  round  contemptu- 
ously, "what's  the  good  of  it?  I  couldn't  breathe  in  a 
place  like  this." 

"I  often  feel  that  I  don't  want  it  and  don't  like  it," 
but  she  wished  he  had  been  impressed  by  it;  it  had  cost 
her  such  heaps  she  thought. 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute.  "There's  nothing  else 
to  say;  think  of  me  as  little  as  you  can,  and  when  the 


Miss  Fingal  261 

day  comes  on  which  you  curse  me,  do  it  as  gently  as 
you  know  how." 

She  went  towards  him  then,  in  a  second  her  arms  were 
round  his  neck.  "Oh,  Dickie,  don't  go,  don't  go!  I 
can't  bear  it!"  She  covered  his  shoulder  with  kisses. 

"I  must,  my  dear,  I  must.  It's  no  good."  He  kissed 
her  eyes  and  her  fluffy  hair;  it  was  very  soft  and  scented. 
"Don't  let's  prolong  it — or  make  it  worse,"  he  said 
gently.  His  voice  gave  her  some  comfort  and  his  arms 
were  round  her.  He  carried  her  to  the  sofa  and  in  a 
second  he  had  gone. 

"O  God!"  she  sobbed,  "give  him  back  to  me!  I 
haven't  prayed  for  so  long — I  don't  want  anything  else 
— but  give  him  back  to  me!  I  want  nothing  else  in  the 
world — only  you,  Dickie " 

She  was  silent,  and  lay  very  still  for  a  minute,  then 
raised  her  head  and  looked  round  the  room.  "It's  all 
over,"  she  said — "I  can  feel  it  now,  I  can  feel  it  as  I 
never  did  before.  It's  overl" 


XIII. 

HE  felt  almost  incoherent  as  he  walked  along  Victoria 
Street  and  crossed  to  Grosvenor  Place.  Cherry  Ripe 
breaking  in  upon  Linda  in  the  little  sitting-room  at  the 
farm!  Only  the  other  day  he  had  been  there  and  looked 
at  everything  it  held,  and  out  at  the  Dutch  garden, 
and  thought  of  her  dear  eyes  resting  on  it  all.  She 
had  never  known  how  he  cursed  himself  for  his  folly,  any 
more  than  she  had  understood  how  impossible  he  had 
found  the  limitations  of  the  life  with  which  she  had 
been  content — his  longing  for  a  larger  share  in  the  great 
activities.  .  .  .  He  had  committed  his  crowning  act  of 
folly  and  paid  the  penalty;  but  to  hear  that  Cherry 
Ripe  had  gone  to  her — gone  to  his  Linda — Great  God! 
He  had  brought  that  on  her.  She  must  have  known 
that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  He  wished  he  had 
asked  more  questions,  for  more  details,  but  he  had  been 
too  much  astounded;  and  nothing  could  undo  it.  He 
had  said  so  just  now:  it  tortured  him  to  realise  it. 

As  for  Cherry  Ripe  herself,  he  reproached  himself 
little  on  her  account.  He  had  not  made  her  worse  than 
he  found  her.  If  it  had  not  been  he  at  that  particular 
time  it  would  have  been  some  one  else  who  might  have 
treated  her  worse.  Her  passion  just  now  affected  him 
little  beyond  the  fact  that  a  man  always  hates  to  see  a 
woman  distressed  and  in  tears,  and  if  she  is  a  pretty 
woman  with  whom  he  remembers  days  that  were,  if  not 
happy,  at  least  full  of  joyous  excitement,  tears  naturally 
touch  him.  And  he  knew  that  her  feeling  for  him  was 
chiefly  the  outcome  of  her  wounded  vanity:  she  had 
worried  him  with  letters,  and  with  meetings  she  had 
tried  to  make  him  believe  were  accidental;  but  he  was 

262 


Miss  Fingal  263 

not  violently  angry  with  her — he  knew  the  reckless  im- 
pulses that  carried  her  away  and,  while  they  had  her  in 
hand,  how  incapable  she  was  of  measuring  their  absurdity 
or  their  effect  on  others.  They  had  their  fascination — 
as  most  impulses  have  for  good  or  ill — she  had  the  beauty 
of  youth  to  cover  them,  audacity  and  a  temperament 
that  was  never  very  sensual — it  was  saved  from  that  by 
the  sentiment  and  sense  of  humour  that  were  a  part  of 
it;  they  combined  to  give  her  courage,  to  make  anything 
seem  possible  if  she  happened  to  desire  it,  and  she 
struggled  for  it  without  consideration  of  any  point  of 
view  but  the  one  that  had  seized  her. 

"Poor  Cherry  Ripe !"  he  said  to  himself,  and  shud- 
dered at  her  doings  and  the  redness  she  put  on  her 
pretty  lips. 

The  life  she  led  had  been  thrust  upon  her,  and  she  let 
it  amuse  her.  Sometimes  when  memories  of  old  days 
broke  upon  her  she  hated  herself,  had  a  cynical  miser- 
able hour — and  recovered.  She  had  been  swept  into 
various  sets  in  London,  among  people  who  wanted 
something  new  and  if  possible  a  little  startling,  but 
neither  stupid  nor  ugly.  From  being  a  success  she  had 
become  a  fashion,  and  her  popularity  reached  far.  She 
had  sprung  from  simple  country  stock,  but  she  was 
quick-witted  and  adapted  herself  sufficiently  to  the 
people  among  whom  she  found  herself  to  make  her  a 
possible  guest  at  houses  where  guests  of  any  sort  were 
welcome  provided  they  were  amusing  and  not  in  want  of 
money.  Young  men  with  scanty  brains  and  usually — 
not  always — full  pockets  imagined  themselves  in  love 
with  her;  they  crowded  the  stalls  every  night  to  see  her 
and  were  surprised  and  chastened  at  the  insolence  with 
which  she  treated  them  when  they  bored  her,  which 
was  as  soon  as  they  became  abject.  She  drew  large 
audiences  and  salaries  to  match.  She  had,  though  she 
did  not  know  it,  an  eye  for  colour  and  line;  it  helped 
her  to  dress  not  only  expensively,  but  with  picturesque 
effect,  so  that  her  clothes  were  often  described  in  journals 
that  thought  it  worth  while  to  devote  space  to  such 
things.  All  this  had  engendered  an  idea  that  if  she 
chose  to  exert  her  power  over  people  she  could  do  what 


264  Miss  Fingal 

she  liked  with  them,  and  convinced  her  that  her  own 
particular  point  of  view  was  the  one  that  mattered,  her 
desire  the  one  to  be  gained,  and  that  would  be  gained  if 
she  struggled  for  it.  Dick  Alliston  had  won  her  by 
slighting  her,  by  treating  her  with  her  own  weapons  of 
insolence  and  indifference,  till  suddenly  in  Paris,  reckless 
and  impulsive  as  she  was,  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be 
drawn  into  her  net.  He  realised  his  folly  before  he 
ceased  to  be  amused  by  it,  and  left  her  to  continue  the 
life  of  which  her  adventure  with  him  was  only  a  chapter. 
It  had  embittered  her;  she  had  been  treated  as  she 
usually  treated  others,  her  role  had  been  taken  from  her. 
She  could  not  bear  to  lose  him  before  she  had  grown  tired 
of  him,  and  desired  to  get  him  back,  to  love  or  hate,  or 
serve  or  flout,  as  the  mood  dictated,  made  her  desperate. 

He  pulled  up  abruptly.  He  had  thought  of  the 
children.  "Why  should  Miss  Fingal  have  them?"  he 
said  aloud.  A  boy  passing  said:  "Hullo!  What's  the 
matter?"  He  shook  his  head  and  quickened  his  pace. 
He  remembered  the  face  he  had  seen  in  that  first 
moment  coming  out  of  the  post  office.  What  had  she 
to  do  with  his  children?  And  why  did  seeing  her  have 
such  a  queer  effect  upon  him?  Something  in  her  eyes 
— Heaven  knew  why,  and  Heaven  kept  its  secrets — had 
made  him  think  of  a  wax  figure  lying  in  a  glass  case  in  a 
church  in  Normandy — of  a  long  straight  road  and  two 
people  whirling  on  in  a  car  between  the  rows  of  poplar- 
trees.  How  happy  they  were!  But  why  was  he  re- 
minded of  it  by  seeing  Jimmy  and  the  Fingal  young 
woman  in  the  car?  .  .  .  She  had  looked  so  young.  He 
had  imagined  her  much  older  when  Jimmy  had  mentioned 
her  before.  She  had  looked  cold,  all  but  the  eyes,  and  so 
immaculate.  Why  should  she  have  the  children?  Why 
had  the  children  been  contended  for  by  these  two 
women?  above  all,  how  could  Cherry  Ripe  be  insane 
enough  to  imagine  that  she  could  get  them,  and  that 
Linda  of  all  people  in  the  world  would  consent  to  it — 
Great  God  in  heaven!  .  .  .  But  this  Miss  Fingal? 
Why  had  she  got  the  children?  There  had  been  a 
happening  somewhere  of  which  he  knew  nothing. 

Suddenly    he    thought    of    Bertha.     She    might   know 


Miss  Fingal  265 

something.  It  would  be  impossible  to  speak  of  Cherry 
Ripe  to  her;  he  could  not  control  himself  sufficiently 
even  in  imagination  to  do  that;  she  had  been  abroad 
with  Jimmy  at  the  time  of  the  visit  to  the  farm,  and 
only  arrived  back  just  before  the  end.  It  distracted  him 
to  think  of  it.  But  she  might  know  something  about 
the  children.  He  would  go  and  see  her.  Bertha  was  a 
woman  he  liked,  so  sensible  and  calm  and  with  a  sense 
of  humour,  and  her  eternal  cigarette  soothed  him  and 
suggested  a  companionship  that  was  not  tiresomely 
feminine.  He  would  go  to  her  flat — better  telephone 
first  perhaps.  She  might  be  out.  .  .  .  There  was  Jimmy? 
He  might  try  him?  but  no,  he  wanted  Bertha.  .  .  .  She 
would  understand. 

He  rang  her  up  from  a  call-office  in  Piccadilly.  She 
had  just  come  back  from  Beechwood.  Beechwood ! 
then — she  would  know.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
had  reached  the  top  landing  and  was  ringing  at  the 
door  of  her  flat.  He  had  spent  some  good  hours  in  the 
room  she  liked  to  call  her  studio;  it  was  large,  and 
the  atmosphere  felt  clean;  he  stood  on  the  threshold  for 
a  moment  to  breathe  it  in.  Big  basket-chairs  and  a 
wide  settee,  matting  and  rugs  on  the  floor,  some  un- 
framed  drawings  on  one  side  of  the  wall,  a  two-row 
bookshelf  running  along  the  other,  a  gate-table  with 
more  books,  an  easel  and  other  properties,  a  high  fire- 
place with  hobs  and  a  copper  kettle  on  one  of  them, 
though  of  course  there  was  no  fire,  a  top-light  with  a 
dark  blind  drawn  over  it,  an  open  window,  with  a  step 
and  a  way  out,  to  leads,  showed  a  view  of  roofs  and  tree- 
tops  that,  passing  mist-covered  buildings,  wandered  to 
miles  away:  with  it  all  an  air  of  comfort  and  peace 
and  utter  quiet.  Bertha  was  waiting  for  him. 

"What  a  sensible  woman  you  are,"  he  said,  "your 
place  is  worth  living  in." 

"That's  why  I'm  here,"  she  answered.  "Sit  down — 
is  there  any  news  ?" 

"Russia  is  threatening  to  move  if  Austria  takes  itself 
across  the  Servian  frontier — and  Germany  is  said  to  be 
mobilising,  but  it  mayn't  be  true " 

"Does  it  mean  anything?" 


266  Miss  Fingal 

"Probably  not.  A  row  is  bound  to  come  some  day, 
but  they  bark  and  lie  down  again  so  often  that  one  gets 
tired  of  expecting  it."  He  went  up  to  the  table  and 
turned  over  the  books.  "You  read  better  stuff  than 
Jimmy  does." 

She  laughed.     "He  says  he  is  working." 

"I  met  him  with  a  woman  the  other  day — funny  com- 
bination, Jimmy  and  a  woman  in  a  motor-car." 

"Miss  Fingal." 

He  snorted  as  he  sat  down.  "I  know."  He  felt  as 
if  Miss  Fingal  were  intruding  upon  him  at  every  turn; 
but  he  had  come  to  speak  about  her,  though  for  a 
moment  he  shirked  it. 

"He  and  she  are  pals,"  Bertha  said  and  laughed 
again.  There  was  a  pause.  She  filled  it  in  by  pushing 
a  box  of  cigarettes  towards  him.  He  shook  his  head 
and  got  up  as  if  to  go  to  the  window,  but  stopped  in 
front  of  her. 

"Why  on  earth  should  she  have  my  children?"  he 
asked. 

"It's  better  than  letting  Cherry  Ripe  have  them." 

"There's  no  question  of  that."  He  frowned  and 
turned  away. 

"She  wants  them." 

"Who?" 

"Cherry  Ripe — she  went  to  see  Linda." 

He  made  an  impatient  movement.  "I  know  .  .  ." 
There  was  a  little  break  in  his  voice,  but  he  held  himself 
well  in  hand;  "don't  let's  speak  of  that." 

Bertha  always  understood.  She  smoked  calmly  for 
a  moment  before  she  said,  "Suppose  we  talk  of  Miss 
Fingal?" 

"If  you  like.  I  must  see  her  again,  then  I  shall 
know  whether  to  let  the  children  remain,  or  to  take 
them  from  her." 

"You  have  no  power  over  them." 

"I  have!"  he  flashed  out.  "They  were  given  to 
Linda,  but  she  has  gone ;  I  let  them  stay  with  their 
grandmother,  but  she  gave  them  up  to  the  Gilstons, 
though  they  had  no  right  over  them — and  Miss  Fingal 
has  none." 


Miss  Fingal  267 

"She  loves  them.  She  was  obsessed  by  Linda,  she 
seems  to  think  that  in  some  way  the  children  belong 
to  her." 

"They  belong  to  me.  If  I  choose  I  can  take  them 
from  her.  Tell  me  about  her,  what  she  is  like  when 
you  know  her  better?" 

"She  used  to  be  very  silent,  a  quiet  little  thing. 
When  Jimmy  first  met  her  he  thought  her  stupid,  but 
she  isn't.  And  she  has  developed.  She  has  caught 
hold  of  some  of  the  things  Linda  cared  for — it's  very 
curious.  I  have  been  with  her  a  good  deal  these  last 
days,  and  see  it." 

"A  blend?" 

"I  don't  understand." 

He  sat  down  and  considered  for  a  moment  before  he 
answered.  "There  are  some  people,  of  course,  who 
think  things  out  for  themselves;  but  the  majority  are 
moulded  by  different  influences — or  the  four  winds  of 
heaven  freighted  with  the  thoughts  and  dreams  of 
people  from  all  the  ends  of  the  earth — and  it  is  just 
a  fluke  which  they  come  up  against." 

"Dear  mad  hatter,  what  about  our  ancestors?" 

"Oh,  some  of  us  of  course  are  just  a  growth — rank 
or  otherwise — from  a  whole  bunch  of  them — but  we  can 
be  successfully  trained  by  a  decent  human  gardener 
sometimes — no  matter  what  or  where  we  hail  from. 
...  I  should  like  to  get  away  to  some  high  mountain- 
top  or  great  plain  that  no  man  had  trodden  before,  and 
breathe  in  the  pure  air — then  come  back  and  see  how 
the  stale  thoughts  that  hungry  people  swallow  and  take 
to  be  their  own,  and  the  used-up  life  with  which  most 
of  them  have  to  shift,  struck  one." 

"To  go  back  to  Miss  Fingal,  you  had  much  better 
let  her  keep  the  children.  What  could  you  do  with 
them?  Linda  was  very  fond  of  her " 

"But  why  should  she  have  them?"  he  said  per- 
versely. "Do  you  like  her?" 

"Yes,  I  am  growing  fond  of  her,  so  is  Jimmy.  But 
you  saw  her?" 

"She  made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  arrived  at  the  Day 
of  Judgment,  and  I  fled." 


268  Miss  Fingal 

Bertha  pulled  out  another  cigarette.  "She's  not  at 
all  like  an  avenging  angel." 

"I  heard  a  good  deal  about  her  at  Leesbury — the 
old  women  mumbled  with  joy  when  they  spoke  of  her 
the  other  day." 

"I  can't  think  why  you  went  there — of  all  places." 

"I  wanted  to,"  he  answered  shortly.  "Tell  me  more 
about  her.  She  has  old  Fingal's  money,  she  liked  Linda, 
and  she  has  done  up  the  Leesbury  cottages — what  else?" 

"She's  a  dear  thing." 

"She  looked  precise  and  cold."  All  the  time,  though 
he  tried  not  to  show  it,  he  was  longing  to  hear  more. 
In  some  strange  irritating  way  Miss  Fingal  was  attract- 
ing him. 

"She  does  seem  precise  sometimes:  she  lived  alone 
for  years  in  a  flat  in  Battersea.  Uncle  John,  as  she 
calls  him,  left  her  his  money,  but  she  hardly  ever  saw 
him,  no  one  seems  to  have  cared  about  her.  But  she 
isn't  cold.  I  should  have  thought  you  knew  too  much 
about  people  to  judge  them  by  what  they  seem." 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"At  Briarpatch  with  the  children." 

He  got  up  and  walked  about.  "And  you  have  been 
seeing  her  there?" 

She  nodded.  "She  was  wonderful — and  very  sweet 
with  them — sittir  under  the  acacia-tree  or  taking; 
Bridget  carefully  down  the  orchard.  She  has  made  a. 
flagged  pathway  to  it  and  a  new  summer-house — and. 
their  rooms  are  charming.  She  is  so  like  Linda  in 
some  of  her  ways  with  them.  She  might  be  their 
mother " 

"The  two  great  founts  of  maternity — Eve  and  the 
Virgin  Mary — have  not  run  dry  yet,  and  women  hark 
back  to  them,  if  they  have  a  fair  chance.  I  must  get 
hold  of  Miss  Fingal.  Perhaps  I  saw  her  on  a  bad 
day;  or  she  thought  me  a  scoundrel." 

"I  dare  say  she  did — you  are  one,"  Bertha  assured 
him  pleasantly. 

"Only  outwardly." 

"It's  inconvenient  in  the  long-run;  so  why  be  one, 
even  outwardly?" 


Miss  Fingal  269 

"I  am  always  hurrying  forward  to  see  what  will 
happen;  I  generally  meet  the  devil  on  the  way  and 
stop  to  play  with  him." 

"I  am  fond  of  you,  Dick,  but  I  never  can  make  out 
what  you  are  driving  at." 

"Neither  can  I."  He  resumed  his  stroll  about  the 
room.  "That  thing's  all  out  of  drawing."  He  stopped 
before  a  picture  she  had  worked  at  a  good  deal.  "It 
isn't  like  that — I  know  the  village  well,  it's  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ranee,  we  went  there  once.  ...  I  re- 
member every  detail  of  every  place  we  went  to  ... 
What  a  hell-bound  fool  I've  been!"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  did  it  from  memory." 

"Which  is  always  fatal:  you  put  in  detail  you  think 
ought  to  be  there,  or  might  be  there — but  it  isn't." 

"Why  were  you  a  hell-bound  fool,  Dick?"  she  asked, 
not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  his  criticism. 

"It's  my  appetite  for  more,  and  more  than  life  is  able 
to  give  me — or  any  other  human  being,  perhaps,  that 
has  been  my  curse,  the  key  to  all  my  crimes.  .  .  . 
The  world  is  such  a  wonderful  place,  so  magnificent, 
and  most  of  us,  all  of  us,  are  so  inadequate:  I  have 
always  felt  there  must  be  a  clue — a  way  to  something 
better  or  worse,  different  anyhow  from  anything  I  have 
come  across — that  would  let  me  into  some  secret  that 
belonged  to  it,  and  as  if  any  human  being  I  met  by 
chance  might  know  it.  I  have  tried  them  all,  all  that 
were  possible  that  is,"  he  laughed  oddly,  "got  drunk 
with  men,  made  love  to  women,  prayed  in  cathedrals, 
gambled  in  hells — nothing  could  hold  me  long,"  he 
pulled  up  before  her.  .  .  .  "Think  of  the  magnificent 
world  with  its  summers  and  winters,  storms  and 
thunders,  its  every  variation  of  strange  life  and  doing, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  men  and  women  mostly 
taken  up  with  a  comedy  or  a  tragedy,  in  which  himself 
or  herself  is  the  chief  player,  and  no  reason  in  particular 
why  it  should  begin  or  leave  off." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  don't  understand  you  a  bit." 

"It  doesn't  matter,  no  one  does,  least  of  all  myself. 
But  it  has  always  seemed  so  impossible  that  what  men 
saw  and  knew  could  be  all  there  was  to  know  concern- 


270  Miss  Fingal 

ing  the  world  and  that  astonishing  growth  called  a 
human  being " 

"I  wish  you'd  sit  down  while  you  talk.  You  are 
rather  like  a  wild  beast  in  a  cage." 

He  remembered  that  Cherry  Ripe  had  said  this  to 
him — it  was  astonishing  how  much  women  were  alike  in 
spite  of  their  variations.  Why  shouldn't  he  walk  about? 

"I  like  to  move  when  I  am  thinking,  movement  is 
life."  He  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"That's  right,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't  see  that  your 
curiosity  accounts  for  some  things  you  have  done — nor 
how  they  are  going  to  help  you  to  solve  a  divine 
mystery." 

"Divine?    What  do  mean  by  divine?" 

"She  gave  a  shrug.  "People  use  the  word  to  describe 
things  they  don't  understand.  The  world  is  a  divine  crea- 
tion." 

"They  use  it  as  a  symbol.  The  world  is  divine  if 
you  like — but  its  secret  may  be  hidden  by  the  devil  in 
the  heart  of  any  prostitute;  the  key  of  a  prison  in 
which  an  angel  stays  or  a  genius  is  hidden  may  hang 
from  the  waist  of  any  jailer.  Why  should  a  lash  in 
the  hand  of  some  lusty  brute  injure  an  innocent  man 
if  the  world  is  divine?  I  go  on  seeking — hungry — 
longing,  but  never  finding  any  solution  that  proves  its 
divinity,  if  you  like  that  word." 

"But  Linda?" 

"A  thing  to  love,  a  flower  in  a  garden,  living  in  the 
light  and  dying  in  the  darkness,  but  no  secret  of  the 
world  in  her  keeping." 

"The  saints,"  she  said  lamely,  as  if  she  knew  the 
absurdity  of  her  words. 

"Prayer  and  suffering  and  self-satisfaction,  living  in 
sanctity  and  dying  smirkly,  convinced  that  heaven  will 
be  their  reward — meritorious,  no  doubt,  but  was  the 
world  worth  creating  for  them?" 

"I  think  that  perhaps  great  poets  have  the  clue,"  she 
said  as  if  she  had  been  considering  the  question,  "great 
writers " 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  have  found  no  key — 
nothing  strong  enough  to  force  the  door  behind  which 


Miss  Fingal  271 

all  the  mysteries  are.  It  is  the  same  with  music.  I 
often  feel  that  it  opens  the  gates,  but  only  to  close  them 
again.  It  gives  us  high  moods  of  religion  or  voluptuous 
emotion,  longings  to  be  up  and  doing  something  that  is 
admirable  and  great — or  not  admirable  and  not  great — 
but  it  is  all  transient,  nothing  that  for  ever  lifts  humanity 
to  a  high  place  worthy  of  the  world." 

She  was  puzzled,  bewildered  by  his  eagerness.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  want,  Dick.  I  think  you  are  a 
lunatic.  After  all,  people  do  their  best." 

He  laughed  out  at  that.  "And  many  do  their  worst 
and  one  is  pitted  against  the  other.  People  go  on 
pottering,  each  on  his  own,  each  for  himself  or  those 
who  nearly  belong  to  him,  but  never  with  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  the  wondercraft,  the  beauty  and 
splendour  of  the  world;  and  never  with  one  magnificent 
aim  in  view:  the  evolution  of  a  humanity  to  match  it." 

"But  what  started  all  this  turmoil  in  you?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again.  "I  have  always 
had  a  sense  that  there  was  some  secret — some  defect 
or  bit  of  machinery  gone  wrong,  to  account  for  the 
depravity,  the  vice  that  humanity  suffers  and  knows, 
and  our  inclination  towards  it  and  our  weakness:  the 
legends  give  no  explanation  or  enlightenment — the 
bafflement  one  meets  is  maddening."  He  went  to  the 
window.  "The  splendour  of  the  world,"  he  said,  and 
looked  towards  the  sunset  and  the  deepening  mists  of 
the  distance.  "The  music  and  colour  of  things  with 
which  man  has  nothing  to  do,  the  saturation  with  life 
and  growth — growth  and  movement  and  change.  The 
secret  must  lie  that  way,  for  every  thing  has  it  save 
death — and  death  itself  has  it  in  a  fashion,  since  no  man 
lies  still  for  ever:  even  in  corruption  there  is  movement." 

"Well,  never  mind,  dear,  you  and  I  have  not  arrived 
at  that  yet ;  and  the  world  is  pleasant  if  you  know  how 
to  use  it — human  beings  have  their  good  times  as  well 
as  bad." 

"Oh  yes — but  unless  there  is  some  goal,  some  aim  for 
them,  why  were  they  created?  There's  been  a  colossal 
upset  somewhere." 

"I   shouldn't  wonder.     But  as   we   can't   set  it   right, 


272  Miss  Fingal 

why  worry?  The  most  we  can  do  is  perhaps  to  add  a 
grain  of  sand  to  the  delectable  shore  before  we  set  sail 
for  eternity — " 

He  looked  up  quickly.  "Bertha!  that's  not  one  of 
your  sentiments.  Who  said  it?" 

She  laughed — her  peaceful  comforting  laugh  he  had 
often  thought  it.  "Some  imp  or  angel  inside  me,  I 
think.  It  took  the  reins  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  Things 
get  said  that  way  sometimes."  She  felt  for  another 
cigarette.  "And  now  I  want  to  talk  about  Aline  Fingal 
and  your  babes." 

"Is  her  name  Aline?  I  rather  like  it.  The  children? 
My  dear  Bertha,  you  won't  believe  it  perhaps,  but  I 
love  the  little  kids."  He  stood  facing  her,  she  saw  his 
very  bright  eyes,  and  the  smile  on  his  face  was  suddenly 
a  happy  boyish  one.  "I  long  to  see  Sturdie  again — my 
little  son!  I  have  never  seen  Bridget;  I  wanted  a  girl 
too:  it's  bad  luck.  Why  should  they — my  children — 
go  to  Miss  Fingal?  They  are  mine — I  want  them." 

"What  would  you  do  with  them?" 

He  turned  away  abruptly,  his  face  became  suddenly 
careworn.  "I  don't  know — that's  it;  I  don't  know.  I 
saw  a  late  edition  as  I  turned  your  corner — things  look 
threatening.  If  there's  a  war  anywhere  I  shall  have  a 
look  in,  if  it's  only  as  a  special  correspondent;  I  could 
go  as  that,  I  know." 

"And  what  would  become  of  them  meanwhile?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  "You  are 
damnably  sensible,  Bertha:  upon  my  soul  I  don't  know; 
but  I  can't  have  them  hauled  about  from  pillar  to  post — 
first  their  grandmother,  then  the  Gilstons,  and  now  Miss 
Fingal." 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  her?" 

"She's  at  the  cottage — but  somehow  I  couldn't  go 
there." 

"She'll  come  up  to  London  if  you  ask  her — to  the 
sedate  house  in  Bedford  Square,  and  interview  you.  It 
would  be  rather  interesting.  I  should  like  to  be  there 
to  hear." 

He  was  standing  before  the  picture  again.  "It's  all 
wrong,  too  imaginative."  Then  with  a  jerk  towards  her, 


Miss  Fingal  273 

"Look  here,  I  must  think  it  out.  But  I  want  the 
children;  they  have  an  excellent  nurse,  they  would  be 
all  right  with  me — you  could  have  a  look  in  on  them 
occasionally.  It  must  be  one  or  the  other,"  after  another 
moment's  thought,  "the  children  or  the  war." 

"Toss  up!" 

He  forced  a  laugh,  went  to  the  window  and  took  a 
last  look  out  at  the  distance.  A  minute  later  he  was  on 
his  way  to  the  Reform  Club. 

There  were  late  telegrams.  He  stopped  in  the  hall 
to  read  them.  "They  seem  to  mean  it,"  he  said  to  a 
man  standing  by  him,  and  he  thought — 

"I  must  write  to  Miss  Fingal."  Then  the  interview 
with  Cherry  Ripe  flung  itself  across  his  brain,  her 
preposterous  visits  to  Linda  and  Miss  Fingal  and  her 
insane  idea  that  she  might  have  the  children.  Bertha 
knew  all  about  that;  but  she  was  a  nice  woman  and 
never  made  one  feel  embarrassed;  that  was  why  she  had 
not  talked  about  it.  ...  All  the  evening  Linda's  face 
haunted  him,  he  could  see  her  eyes  and  feel  the  touch 
of  her  soft  fingers  on  his  arm  .  .  .  "but  this  stranger 
woman,  why  has  she  come  into  it?  I  must  write  to 
her." 

Aline  Fingal  sat  in  the  garden  through  the  long 
twilight.  It  had  been  a  good  day,  as  all  the  days  and 
nights  had  been  since  the  children  came,  for  even  her 
sleep  was  laden  with  consciousness  of  them,  and  when 
she  awoke,  it  was  only  to  smile  and  drowsily  close  her 
eyes  again.  Janet  and  Burdett  and  the  rest  all  knew 
how  content  she  was,  though  she  said  little,  for  some 
happiness  is  most  complete  in  silence,  and  the  sense  of 
it  is  like  a  secret  caress.  .  .  .  The  trees  grew  dim  and 
the  night  sounds  came.  "If  I  may  keep  them!"  she 
thought;  "Dick — Dick,  let  me  keep  them!  She  has 
given  me  her  love  for  them — she  left  it  to  me — let  me 
keep  them."  And  the  haunting  thought  came:  "But 
he  must  love  them  too,  his  own  children — and  if  he 
wants  them?  .  .  ." 


XIV. 

AFTER  all  he  put  off  writing  to  her.  It  was  too  difficult. 
He  remembered  her  face  when  he  said  that  he  had  been 
to  Leesbury:  and  since  then  he  had  heard  of  Cherry 
Ripe's  visit.  She  probably  thought  him  a  cold-blooded 
monster:  so  he  waited.  Early  in  the  week,  when  the 
German  reservists  at  Antwerp  were  recalled  and  the 
German  railway  stations  were  given  over  to  the  military, 
he  felt  certain  that  England  would  be  drawn  in.  He 
had  travelled  a  good  deal  in  Germany  and  knew  its 
ambitions.  Then  Austria  declared  war  on  Serbia,  and 
he  gave  himself  up,  as  he  expressed  it,  to  the  four 
winds  of  heaven,  ready  to  go  before  the  one  that  blew 
in  the  right  direction  the  moment  it  was  high  enough. 
"But  I  must  arrange  something  about  the  children,"  he 
thought.  Germany,  of  course,  had  virtually  closed  in 
when  the  first  ultimatum  was  sent  to  Russia.  "It's 
coming!"  he  said,  and  late  that  night — Friday  night, 
the  3 1st  of  July — he  wrote  to  Miss  Fingal. 

Lady  Gilston  walked  over  to  Briarpatch  the  next 
morning.  The  cottage  had  a  curious  attraction  for  her. 
She  was  immensely  grateful  to  its  new  owner.  The 
children  had  been  a  terrible  embarrassment  when  the 
Argentine  gentleman  thrust  them  on  her.  It  meant 
starting  a  nursery  again ;  besides,  though  she  had  been 
sorry  for  Linda,  she  had  disliked  Dick  Alliston.  And  she 
had  only  just  got  over  the  divorce  business,  which  had 
worried  her  less  than  she  had  feared  it  would  do,  for  Sir 
James,  while  he  lamented  it,  found  an  underlying  satis- 
faction at  being  able  to  tell  his  acquaintance  "that  poor 
Mrs.  Alliston  and  her  mother,  Lady  Hester,  are  relations 
of  ours."  "Thank  God  he  is  still  vulgar!"  his  wife  had 

274 


Miss  Fingal  275 

sighed  with  almost  affectionate  gratitude.  Linda's  ill- 
ness had  been  a  drag  on  her  time  and  sympathies,  and 
for  years  she  had  been  apologetic  to  him  for  Lady 
Hester's  pecuniary  indiscretions;  even  the  Alliston 
money,  imprudently  trusted  to  her,  had  been  lost  at 
the  tables  of  Nice  and  Monte  Carlo.  Altogether  she 
felt  something  like  despair — despair  that  was  angry 
rather  than  painful — when  she  found  herself  travelling 
from  Paris  to  Beechwood  with  the  children  thrown 
indefinitely  on  her  hands.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  un- 
fairness, for  it  had  come  just  when  her  own  two  had 
left  school  and  she  wanted  to  devote  herself  to  them. 
She  was  a  tired  woman  whose  life  had  been  full  of 
annoyances  concealed  and  grappled  with  in  silence.  She 
exaggerated  the  difficulties  of  this  last  one:  it  was  a 
load  not  to  be  borne.  All  at  once  that  summer  morning 
at  the  cottage  Miss  Fingal  had  lifted  it.  It  seemed 
wonderful.  She  had  been  interested  in  "the  lonely 
little  thing"  before,  grateful  to  her  for  going  to  Leesbury, 
but  from  the  day  when  the  group  went  slowly  out  of  the 
Italian  gates — Miss  Fingal  and  Sturdie,  Janet  and  little 
Bridget — Lady  Gilston's  whole  feeling  for  her  changed, 
though  at  best  her  affections  were  of  only  moderate 
warmth  and  kept  well  in  hand ;  expressions  of  them 
or  demonstrations,  she  thought  tiresome  or  absurd — 
except  occasionally  to  one's  most  immediate  belongings, 
and  then  they  were  unnecessary:  there  were  some  things 
so  usual  they  needed  no  signs  to  prove  thier  existence. 

"We  have  quite  a  party  already  for  the  week-end," 
she  said,  "and  one  or  two  more  will  probably  arrive 
this  evening.  We  want  you  to  come  over  to  luncheon 
to-morrow.  They  will  talk  of  nothing  but  the  situation 
of  course — no  one  thinks  of  anything  else.  Do  you  get 
a  last  night's  paper  in  the  morning?" 

"No.  Stimson  heard  in  the  village  that  Germany 
was  going  to  war,  but  I  feel  so  content,  so  far  away 
from  everything  now.  When  I  am  more  used  to  it," 
she  added  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  "my  thoughts  will 
go  out  to  the  world  again."  Aline's  eyes  turned  towards 
the  garden. 

"They  are  very  fortunate  children." 


276  Miss  Fingal 

"Oh  no,  it  is  I  who  am  fortunate."  She  was  silent 
for  a  moment.  "Last  night  I  was  thinking  so  much 
of  their  father.  .  .  .  He  must  long  to  see  them — to  hear 
of  them — I  am  so  afraid  of  his  wanting  them." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  trouble  yourself  about  that, 
he  is  a  selfish  man;  I  never  understood  his  attraction 
for  Linda " 

The  postman  came  as  she  was  leaving.  At  the  hall 
door  he  gave  them  some  papers  and  a  letter.  Without 
meaning  to  see  it  the  direction  caught  Lady  Gilston's 
eye.  She  turned  to  go  and  hesitated. 

With  an  instinct  of  what  it  meant  Aline  tore  the  letter 
open.  "He  has  written!"  she  exclaimed,  "Oh,  do 
stay!"  She  read  it  aloud: — 

"DEAR  Miss  FINGAL, — Will  you  kindly  tell  me  when 
the  pleasant  visit  of  my  children  to  you  will  terminate? 
I  am  anxious  to  make  other  arrangements  for  them;  and 
if  you  are  in  London  soon  would  you  allow  me  to  see 
you? — Yours  very  truly, 

"RICHARD  ALLISTON." 

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  flashed,  her  face  was  white. 
"Other  arrangements — and  he  underlines  soon.  Do  you 
think  he  wants  to  give  them  to — "  she  couldn't  bring 
herself  to  say  it.  She  added  fiercely,  "I  will  take  them 
away  to  the  other  end  of  the  world,  rather  than  let  her 
have  them." 

Lady  Gilston  had  of  course  heard  of  Cherry  Ripe's 
mad  idea,  but  she  was  amazed  to  see  this  quiet  woman 
suddenly  blaze.  "Why  not  go  up  and  see  him?"  she 
said.  "I  should  telegraph,  you  will  find  it  easier  than 
writing,  to  say  that  you  will  be  in  London  on  Monday 
and  will  see  him  the  next  day.  Monday  is  Bank  Holiday, 
but  you  won't  mind  that :  if  you  go  up  in  the  afternoon 
the  roads  will  be  quieter."  She  was  a  practical  woman 
and  arranged  things  quickly. 

"But  the  children?  I  feel  as  if  they  might  be  stolen 
if  I  left  them.  She  might  come " 

"She  wouldn't  do  that.  They  will  be  quite  safe  with 
Janet  and  the  rest — the  Webbs  are  devoted  to  Sturdie. 


Miss  Fingal  277 

Or  why  not  telegraph  to  Bertha  too,  and  ask  her  to  come 
this  afternoon  and  stay  till  you  return?  then  you  will  be 
quite  happy  about  them.  You  could  bring  her  to  luncheon 
to-morrow,  she  likes  a  political  party." 

"She  may  be  away." 

"No,  we  heard  from  her  this  morning.  Don't  worry 
yourself  unnecessarily,  dear  Aline — if  I  may  call  you 
that,  as  Bertha  and  Jimmy  do;  I  seem  to  know  you  too 
well  now  to  be  formal,"  Lady  Gilston  added  as  an  apology 
for  the  tenderness  of  which  she  was  half  ashamed.  She 
put  out  a  hand:  "Write  the  telegrams  and  let  me  take 
them." 

Aline  lifted  the  hand  and  rested  her  cheek  on  it  for 
a  moment.  "I  will — no  one  ever  cared  for  me  at  all  till 
this  last  year — it  is  so  good." 

Lady  Gilston  heard  her  voice  at  intervals  all  through 
the  day.  "That  girl  seems  to  belong  to  one,"  she 
thought,  "or  to  the  part  of  the  world  in  which  one  likes 
best  to  live."  It  was  significant  that  she  thought  of  her 
as  a  girl:  but  happiness  and  a  place  in  the  world  had 
done  a  great  deal  for  Aline. 

Bertha  came,  calmly  radiant.  She  had  meant  to  stay 
in  London  over  the  excitements,  but  the  call  of  the 
cottage  lured  her  away  from  them. 

"Of  course  you  must  see  Dick,"  she  said,  "my  step- 
mother is  a  wise  woman ;  and  stay  away  as  long  as  you 
like,  for  we  shall  be  quite  happy  here — consider  me  the 
Canon  in  residence.  And  for  Heaven's  sake  take  Stimson 
with  you,  then  you'll  be  comfortable.  I  am  used  to  my 
garret  disguised  as  a  studio,  and  your  retinue  is  afflicting 
— Janet  and  the  maids  will  do  for  us." 

This  was  said  in  the  garden — she  was  dodging  the 
gnats  and  midges  with  her  cigarette.  "You'll  have  to 
learn  to  smoke  if  you  live  in  the  country,"  she  added, 
"but  I  don't  see  you  doing  it!" 

They  lunched  at  Beechwood  again  on  Monday.  The 
guests  all  knew  that  something  was  taking  Aline  up  to 
London  immediately  afterwards,  and  they  almost  envied 
her,  in  spite  of  the  uneasy  feeling  that  quiet  leisurely 
country  visits  away  from  all  worries  and  noises  might 
soon  have  a  sudden  ending:  for  it  is  strange  how 


278  Miss  Fingal 

dreamily  communicative  an  atmosphere  can  be  at  times, 
and  how  often  we  hazily  and  very  silently  accept  its 
knowledge. 

Sir  James  was  voluble  and  almost  impatient;  the 
calm  enjoyments  of  wealth  away  from  crowds  were  all 
very  well,  but  he  felt  off  duty. 

"I  don't  think  we  ought  any  of  us  to  be  in  the  country 
at  a  crisis  of  this  sort — "  he  said.  "And  if  there  is  a 
war  we  shall  all  want  to  do  what  we  can."  It  had 
occurred  to  him  that  there  would  be  various  posts  to  be 
reached  by  a  generous  expenditure,  in  which  he  might 
add  to  his  reputation, — that  he  might  even  become 
famous — and  official. 

The  car  came  to  fetch  Aline.  Bertha  was  going  to 
set  her  a  mile  on  her  way  and  walk  back.  The  people 
they  passed  looked  after  them;  the  time  was  coming 
when  every  one  would  want  to  be  in  London.  The  air 
seemed  charged.  In  the  outskirts  there  were  placards 
of  late  editions  not  usually  published  on  Bank  Holiday. 
People  standing  about  in  groups  looked  different,  half 
silent,  as  if  they  had  heard,  but  scoffed  at  the  idea,  that 
the  older  order  of  things  would  pass  never  to  return — the 
young  men  in  straw  hats  with  a  laughing  expression  on 
their  faces  that  was  a  little  unreal,  the  young  women 
flaunting  their  finery  defiantly,  as  if  they  knew  that  the 
day  was  coming  near  when  they  would  shed  it ;  the  older 
people,  graver,  curious  and  doubtful ;  it  seemed  as  if  they 
all  stood  at  the  cross-roads  between  a  strange  exciting 
joke  and  a  tragedy,  wondering  which  way  to  look  and 
what  to  believe:  the  old  hesitated;  the  young  went  on, 
snatching  joy  while  they  might. 

Dick  Alliston  had  telegraphed  that  he  would  come 
to  her  at  five  o'clock  on  Tuesday — Tuesday,  the 
4th  of  August.  She  was  glad  in  the  morning  that 
she  had  come  up  the  day  before.  She  would  have 
disliked  his  seeing  the  house  in  a  dust-sheeted  desolate- 
looking  condition.  By  the  afternoon  it  wore  its  normal 
aspect. 

He  arrived  punctually.  She  was  sitting  in  the  draw- 
ing-room on  the  sofa  across  the  corner,  from  which 


Miss  Fingal  279 

she  could  see  the  whole  length  of  the  double  room, 
broken  by  an  old  thin  Persian  rug.  There  were  flowers 
about,  and  some  long  boughs  of  greenery  from  Briar- 
patch.  Stimson  had  seen  to  it,  she  wished  he  had  not 
now ;  it  seemed  a  little  cruel — for  they  would  remind  him, 
but  it  was  too  late  to  take  them  away.  She  dreaded 
his  coming;  it  was  difficult  to  lay  hold  of  the  conflicting 
emotions  that  possessed  her,  to  control  them.  There 
had  been  hours  of  late  when  she  had  thought  of  him 
almost  tenderly,  and  others  when  she  had  made  plans  for 
avoiding  him  and  taking  the  children  for  ever  beyond 
his  reach.  Since  his  letter  came  she  had  been  afraid 
lest  it  meant  that  he  wanted  them;  it  seemed  to  imply 
this :  as  she  sat  waiting  for  him,  she  felt  as  if  everything 
pointed  to  it;  even  the  ticking  of  the  clock  had  a  sig- 
nificance as  it  went  towards  the  moment  that  would 
bring  him. 

It  struck  half-past  five.  Through  the  open  window 
she  could  see  the  trees,  thick  and  green,  their  patchy 
whitened  stems  and  the  summer-house  in  the  corner. 
The  roadway  was  empty,  there  was  hardly  any  traffic, 
everything  was  unnaturally  still,  as  if  waiting  for  the 
midnight  decision.  Presently  she  heard  a  taxi  coming 
round  the  square,  her  heart  seemed  to  recognise  it.  It 
came  nearer  and  stopped  before  the  house.  She  kept 
time  in  her  thoughts  while  he  paid  the  fair,  and  through 
the  pause  while  he  stood  on  the  steps  before  he  was  let 
in.  She  knew  every  stair  he  trod  and  the  exact  moment 
when  Stimson  hesitated  outside,  before  he  opened  the 
door  and  announced  him.  He  entered  quickly  with  his 
head  bent  a  little  forward,  and  eager  eyes  that  lighted 
on  her  in  the  first  second,  as  if  they  had  known  where 
she  would  be  sitting.  He  hurried  towards  her;  he  felt 
her  hand  tremble  as  it  touched  his. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  let  me  see  you."  He  looked  at 
her  searchingly  and  then  at  the  room.  "I  have  been 
here  before,"  he  said.  "I  came  with  Bendish  on 
some  business  in  which  he  thought  your  uncle  might 
be  interested.  But  it  is  different — "  His  eyes  rested 
on  the  pot  of  green  boughs  by  the  bookcase.  She  felt 
that  he  knew — and  hated  herself.  "How  does  the  garden 


280  Miss  Fingal 

look  this  year?"  His  voice  seemed  to  reach  her  from  a 
distance. 

"I  think  it  is — beautiful."     She  could  hardly  speak. 

With  a  little  quick  movement,  as  if  to  change  the 
direction  of  his  thoughts,  he  said :  "I  told  you  that  I 
went  to  Leesbury."  He  sat  down  facing  her  but  a  few 
paces  off.  "I  heard  of  your  visits  to  Linda — that's  why 
I  asked  you  to  let  me  come  to  see  you  that  day  I  met  you 
with  Jimmy.  You  evidently  thought  me  a  scoundrel — " 
He  gave  a  queer  little  laugh. 

"No— but " 

"Linda  and  I  were  there  half  a  dozen  times." 

"She  told  me." 

"Once  we  stayed  at  the  farm." 

"I  know." 

"I  went  there  last  time."  .  .  .  He  got  up  and  walked 
away  as  if  to  avoid  seeing  her  face. 

"How  could  you !"     She  almost  whispered  it. 

"I  wanted  to  get  into  the  surroundings  that  had  been 
hers.  Dreams  are  sometimes  other  people's  thoughts 
that  have  travelled  to  us  or  lingered  in  the  air — we 
breathe  them  in.  Some  thought  of  hers  might  have 
waited " 

"Yes?" 

"I  wanted  a  sign  from  her,  no  matter  how  much  it 
hurt,  besides  it  had  become  a  shrine,  a  place  to  which 
to  go  and  pray — not  that  I  ever  do  pray."  He  looked 
at  her,  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

"It  was  dreadful  that  it  should  end  so."  She  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat  to  steady  her  voice.  "You  couldn't 
have  loved  her  very  much!" 

"I  did,"  he  came  back  to  her.  "I  worshipped  her 
with  the  best  side  of  me,  but  the  best  side  of  one  is  not 
the  whole,  and  the  other  is  sometimes  strong  enough  to 
— to  send  one's  soul  to  hell." 

He  said  it  almost  to  himself,  he  seemed  to  forget  her 
for  a  moment ;  and  she  hardly  heard  him  for  the  beating 
of  her  heart,  the  strange  whirl  that  beset  her:  was  it 
joy  or  fear,  or  only  the  tension  of  his  visit? 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  as  if  he  remembered 
why  he  had  come.  "You  have  my  children?" 


Miss  Fingal  281 

She  tightened  her  hands  together.  "Yes,  I  have  the 
children,"  she  answered  under  her  breath. 

"They  are  my  children,"  he  said  firmly,  as  if  he 
thought  she  would  deny  it,  "and  I  want  to  make 
arrangements  for  them " 

"Oh  no — no,"  came  from  her  lips. 

"If  there  is  a  war  I  shall  go — I  can't  leave  them  at 
a  loose  end " 

"Oh,  but  you  wouldn't — you  wouldn't  let  any  one — 
I  can't  say  it,"  she  cried  passionately;  unlocking  her 
hands  she  held  them  out  as  if  entreating. 

"Don't  let  us  shirk  putting  into  words  what  we  both 
know,"  he  said.  "Like  an  accursed  fool  I  ran  away 
with  a  woman — it  was  a  madness  but  a  brief  one.  I  was 
a  brute  to  Linda  to  do  it — but  it  is  over — it  was  very 
soon  over.  I  have  not  been  a  brute  to  the  other  woman, 
for  if  I  had  not  left  her  she  would  have  left  me.  I  lost 
the  children  by  it — and  the  mother  had  them;  but  she 
has  gone  and  I  have  done  nothing  since  that  would 
justify  their  not  being  given  to  me.  They  are  mine — I 
can  claim  them  and  I  want  them,  to  have  them  with 
me,  when  it  is  possible.  I  understand  the  Gilstons 
have  sent  them  on  a  visit  to  you " 

"Not  on  a  visit.  They  gave  them  to  me.  I  thought 
they  had  a  right.  They  have  their  own.  I  am  alone  in 
the  world — I  had  been  waiting — I  think  Linda  meant 
me  to  have  them.  She  tried  to  send  me  a  message  but 
it  was  too  late,  she  couldn't  speak — I  should  have  gone 
to  her  but  I  was  lying  insensible  at  the  White  Hart — 
perhaps  she  brought  it  and  that  is  why  I  have  thought  of 
them — longed  for  them  so—"  Her  voice  was  low ;  she 
felt  incoherent  with  the  excitement  she  desperately  tried 
to  quell. 

He  stood  staring  at  her.  Precise  and  cold  he  had 
called  her;  this  woman  was  on  fire,  and  young  still, 
and  passionate.  "You  were  very  fond  of  her?"  he 
said. 

"Yes — yes.  She  was  like  no  one  else,  like  nothing 
else  in  the  world  that  ever  came  to  me — she  made  me 
think  and  feel — she  gave  me  more  life  to  live  with " 

"And  the   children — are  they  much   to  you?" 


282  Miss  Fingal 

"So  much  that  I  think  I  shall  die  if  you  take  them 
from  me — yet  I  see  that  I  have  no  right  to  them." 

He  sat  down  and  looked  at  her.  She  had  grown  calm 
again.  The  sunlight,  straying  in,  rested  for  a  moment  on 
a  gold  thread  in  her  hair — hair  twisted  round  her  head 
as  Linda  used  to  twist  hers.  He  saw  her  clear  pleading 
eyes  with  the  long  lashes  shading  them,  and  her  lips  a 
little  apart  as  if  to  let  a  sigh  come  through — he  couldn't 
imagine  any  man  daring  to  kiss  them,  she  looked  too  pure 
and  simple — and  if  she  was  not  pretty  there  was  some- 
thing about  her  that  drew  him  irresistibly  to  her:  he 
felt  that  she  was  a  woman  to  trust,  that  it  was  a  great 
deal  to  know  her — to  be  in  her  presence.  "It  is  a 
blessed  thing  that  you  should  care  for  them,"  he  said, 
"they  are  far  better  with  you  than  they  would  be  with  the 
Gilstons."  The  whole  expression  of  her  face  changed. 
"If  I  go — I  should  like  to  think  of  them  with  you " 

"I  may  keep  them!" 

"Keep  them  till  I  come  back  and  ask  you  for  them. 
Probably  I  shall  never  come  back " 

Her  heart  sank  at  those  last  words.  "Oh,  you  will!" 
she  said  desperately. 

"Give  them  a  sense  of  the  beauty  of  the  world — and 
make  them  fit  to  live  in  it,"  he  went  on. 

"I  will— I  will!"     He  felt  it  to  be  a  promise. 

"And  ideals — give  them  ideals,"  he  laughed  again,  a 
little  harsh  ironical  laugh.  "You  won't  believe  that  I 
have  had  them;  but  I  have,  all  my  life — and  stayed  in 
the  mud  at  their  feet.  Ideals  go  wrong  sometimes,  but 
half  the  beauty  of  the  world  is  their  flowering.  Do 
you  remember  what  Chevrillon  says — ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  She  had  never  heard  of  Chev- 
rillon. 

;'  'Before  ever  there  was  a  white  marble  temple  shin- 
ing on  a  hill  it  shone  with  a  more  brilliant  beauty  in  the 
mind  of  some  artist  who  designed  it' — it's  true.  Ideals! 
we  talk  of  them  and  generally  go  the  other  way,  or 
strew  the  road  before  them  with — God  knows  what!" 
He  stopped  for  a  moment,  then  he  asked  abruptly: 
"Why  did  you  go  to  Leesbury?  Did  you  know  her 
before?" 


Miss  Fingal  283 

"No.  But  at  Briarpatch  I  heard  of — of  you  both;  it 
seemed  to  be  full  of  memories.  Perhaps  some  of  the 
thoughts  you  left  lingered  for  me."  She  looked  up  with 
a  little  smile,  and  he  thought  how  quickly  she  could 
assimilate.  "One  day,"  she  went  on,  "Lady  Gilston 
told  me  about  Leesbury,  that  it  was  a  quiet  place  and 
I  might  go  and  see  Linda  if  I  went  there.  I  liked 
Wavercombe  but  people  called " 

He  laughed,  fresh  laughter  this  time  like  a  school- 
boy's. "I  know;  stuffed  people  who  walk  on  their  hind 
legs  and  think  their  tennis  tournaments  and  garden  par- 
ties the  centre  of  the  polite  universe — "  He  stopped; 
he  had  been  looking  towards  the  further  room.  "I 
think  I  remember  two  tall  white  vases  at  the  end 
there?  Your  uncle  told  me  he  had  bought  them  at 
Pisa?" 

"I  sent  them  away — they  were  like  ghosts  in  the 
twilight."  She  was  rather  ashamed  of  it  now — but  she 
had  never  associated  them  with  Pisa;  they  had  been 
so  white  and  cold:  she  had  imagined  that  anything 
concerned  with  Italy  would  suggest  the  summer  and  the 
sun,  and  orange-trees  and  olives. 

"But  ghosts  from  Tuscany,"  he  said.  "Lord!  how 
I  should  like  to  see  the  bridge  over  the  sleepy  Arno 
again — and  the  queer  shops  that  smelt  musty  inside. 
We  must  take  the  children  there  some  day."  A  strange 
thing  to  say  to  her:  he  realised  it  and  turned  to  her,  his 
face  happy  with  the  vision  he  had  conjured  back  for 
a  moment.  "You  shall  take  them  and  I'll  be  your 
humble  courier  and  watch-dog.  When  will  you  let  me 
see  them?" 

"When  you  like.  They  are  at  Wavercombe;  shall 
I  send  for  them  to-morrow?" 

"No ;  and  not  yet.  I  will  tell  you  when  I  feel  I  can— 
and  dare.  I  have  never  seen  the  little  one  at  all." 

"She  has  wide-open  eyes  that  seem  to  be  asking  a 
question  that  the  rest  of  her  does  not  know." 

This  quiet  Miss  Fingal  said  strange  things  sometimes, 
he  thought.  "Did  Linda  ever  talk  of  me?"  he  asked, 
and  winced:  his  thoughts  seemed  to  smite  him  some- 
times. 


284  Miss  Fingal 

She  nodded   for  answer. 

"Did  she  forgive  me?" 

"I  think  she   felt  that  she  had  nothing  to   forgive." 

"Did  she  want  me  back?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "She  knew  that  was  impossible. 
She  couldn't  have  borne  it  after " 

"I  knew,"  he  said,  "and  I  couldn't  have  gone — it 
was  not  as  if  she  had  been  like  any  other  woman."  He 
stopped  a  minute  and  then  his  voice  changed.  "Any 
other  women  I  have  known  and  talked  to  are  far  back 
in  my  thoughts,  if  they  come  in  them  at  all — like 
years  ago — and  easy  to  forget.  I  have  tramped  on, 
away  from  them  but  never  away  from  her.  .  .  .  Since 
she  died  I  have  felt  sometimes  as  if  she  stood  beside  me, 
watching,  putting  out  her  hand  to  touch  my  arm  .  .  . 
but  one  feels  that  sort  of  thing  at  times.  It  is  nothing." 

He  looked  at  a  clock.  "It  is  time  I  went.  I  wish 
you  were  in  London;  but  the  country  is  better  for  the 
children — and  for  you  too,  of  course." 

"I  was  always  in  London  till  last  year — but  now  I  get 
so  tired  of  it." 

"Not  in  this  old  square,  with  those  worthy  plane-trees 
looking  in  upon  you,  and  this  good  Adams'  room  that  is 
so  comfortable?  I  should  write  immortal  works  if  it 
were  mine.  What  did  you  do  with  your  life  before  you 
had  Sturdie  and  Bridget?" 

"Jimmy  Gilston  asked  me  that  question,"  she  said. 

"He  is  an  impostor,"  he  laughed.  "I  have  told  him  a 
dozen  times  that  he  ought  to  do  something  with  his  life. 
If  he  asks  again,  tell  him  that  now  you  are  starting  two 
children  on  the  way  to  be  decent  citizens  and  help  the 
world  in  the  future — no  woman  can  do  better  work  than 
that."  He  went  half-way  to  the  door  and  stopped.  "It 
was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come  up  on  purpose — when 
do  you  go  back?" 

"Not  to-day " 

"Who  could  that  has  life  inside  him — or  her?  I  am 
going  to  walk  about  till  midnight,  as  thousands  of  others 
will,  waiting  to  see  if  there  is  an  answer  to  the  ulti- 
matum.— Strange  to  feel  as  if  one's  finger  is  on  the 
pulse  of  the  world,  as  we  all  do  to-day?" 


Miss  Fingal  285 

She  looked  up  with  a  new  excitement  on  her  face. 
"I  did  not  realise  it  quite  like  that,"  she  said,  "one  lives 
like  a  snail  in  a  shell  sometimes." 

"Oh  no — it's  not  that.  Probably  we  shall  all  be 
burning  patriots  this  time  to-morrow.  We  only  find 
ourselves  out  when  the  springs  are  touched,"  and  as  he 
looked  at  her  he  thought  that  it  was  Linda  who  had 
done  this  to  her — or  was  it  the  baby  fingers  of  the 
children?  "When  will  you  come  back  to  London  for 
good?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  will  bring  them  up  when  you 
ask  me." 

"That's  agreed.  May  I  come  again — whether  they 
are  here  or  not?" 

"I  want  you  to  come":  eagerness  rushed  unbidden 
to  her  voice. 

He  looked  at  her,  a  long  dispassionate  look  as  if  he 
were  diving  into  her  heart  and  soul;  then  held  out  his 
hand  and  turned  headlong  towards  the  door.  He  hesi- 
tated for  a  second  when  he  had  opened  it.  "Bless 
you!"  he  said,  and  went  so  quickly  that  she  stood 
watching,  and  hardly  realised  when  the  sound  of  his 
footsteps  had  died  away. 


XV. 


THAT  evening  and  far  into  the  night  Aline  Fingal  sat  by 
the  open  window  in  the  drawing-room  and  lived  the 
most  wonderful  hours  she  had  ever  known.  .  .  .  She 
had  seen  Dick  Alliston,  the  words  sang  themselves  to  her 
like  a  Te  Deum.  "He  has  been — he  has  been."  .  .  . 

The  world  without  awaited  the  stroke  of  the  clock  to 
change  it  for  evermore,  she  was  conscious  of  it  all  the 
time.  .  .  .  Dick  Alliston  had  left  the  children  with  her, 
and  she  felt  that  he  would  never  take  them  wholly 
away.  .  .  .  Every  living  soul  in  the  square — in  all  the 
houses  beyond,  in  every  house  and  place  in  England, 
consciously  or  unconsciously — was  waiting  for  the  clock 
to  strike  the  hour  of  midnight  in  Germany.  .  .  .  She 
had  seen  Dick  Alliston  and  she  understood  how  it  was 
that  Linda  had  loved  him  so  much,  she  conjured  back 
his  voice  to  her  ears,  his  face  to  her  dreamy  eyes.  .  .  . 

The  people  were  thinking  of  their  country  and  what 
would  happen  when  midnight  had  come  in  Germany.  .  .  . 
Dick  Alliston  had  walked  up  and  down  the  room  behind 
her,  it  would  never  be  empty  or  desolate  again  as  it  had 
been  before  he  came.  How  strange  that  he  remembered 
the  vases  from  Tuscany — she  wondered  now  why  she 
had  been  afraid  of  them — he  had  stood  looking  at  the 
place  where  they  had  been,  he  knew  the  land  they  had 
come  from.  .  .  .  The  people  behind  the  lighted  windows 
with  the  drawn-down  blinds  were  sitting  up  waiting  for 
the  clock  to  strike.  The  square  was  very  still,  save 
when  a  hurrying  car  or  taxi  whirled  round  it,  or  people 
walking  by,  on  the  wide  pavement  beneath  her,  talked  in 
hushed  tones :  they  were  wondering  whether  it  would  be 
peace  or  war.  .  .  .  She  had  seen  Dick  Alliston  and  she 

286 


Miss  Fingal  287 

understood  why  Cherry  Ripe  had  loved  him,  he  was  like 
no  one  else  in  the  world;  it  was  not  possible  to  think  of 
him,  of  his  voice,  of  the  way  he  looked  and  the  things  he 
said,  and  not  feel  that  of  course  she  had  loved  him — 
every  woman  he  had  known  must  have  loved  him.  .  .  . 

The  clock  struck  the  three-quarters  ...  in  fifteen 
minutes  England  might  be  at  war.  She  had  never  felt 
keenly  about  any  other  great  event  .  .  .  but  she  had  been 
outside  the  world ;  now  she  was  a  part  of  it,  she  belonged 
to  England — and  in  an  hour's  time  England  might  be  at 
war  .  .  .  Dick  would  go  and  fight.  If  he  were  killed — 
she  held  her  breath — but  no,  he  was  made  to  win,  to 
come  back  a  conqueror.  She  could  imagine  him  a 
Crusader  in  the  centuries  of  long  ago,  with  sword  and 
armour,  his  bright  eyes  looking  through  his  visor,  his 
voice  ringing  out  on  the  battlefield.  .  .  .  He  would  go 
to  the  war  and  she  would  wait  with  the  children,  as  the 
women  and  children  of  old  had  waited,  and  pray  for 
news  of  him.  .  .  .  He  had  given  her  the  children,  they 
should  be  like  him  when  he  first  grew  up  and  set  out  on 
his  way  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

Linda  died — alone  at  the  farm;  but  they  had  been 
wonderful  days  in  which  he  had  loved  her,  worth 
paying  for  with  all  the  pain  that  had  come  later,  for 
he  had  been  her  lover.  She  had  longed  to  live  for  the 
children,  but  her  soul  could  not  stay  in  its  shelter,  and 
set  out  alone — along  the  dark  road — while  her  friend 
was  lying  insensible  at  the  White  Hart. 

Dimly  she  remembered  a  night  of  agony  and  a 
dream  of  the  children  .  .  .  perhaps  it  was  the  night  that 
Linda  had  struggled  to  send  the  message.  ...  It  must 
be  so  wonderful  to  be  loved  as  Linda  had  been  loved. 
She  remembered  the  two  people  standing  together  in 
the  darkness  by  the  pond  at  Wavercombe:  she  had 
heard  the  passion  in  the  man's  voice,  she  had  known 
when  his  arms  went  round  the  woman.  Nothing, 
nothing  in  the  world  could  matter  while  they  loved  each 
other  so  much,  any  after  misery  was  worth  bearing  to 
gain  such  an  hour  as  that.  .  .  . 

Would  the  joy,  the  wonder,  the  heavenly  magic  of 
life  never,  never  come  to  her?  She  had  been  lonely 


288  Miss  Fingal 

all  those  years  at  Battersea,  and  all  those  months  after 
uncle  John's  money  had  come  to  her.  It  was  better 
now  that  she  had  Linda  to  remember  and  the  children 
were  with  her  and  she  had  seen  Dick;  but  she  hungered 
for  love.  She  had  never  done  that  before,  except  in  the 
hour  when,  half  fearing  and  not  knowing,  she  had  sat, 
an  eavesdropper,  on  the  seat;  but  she  knew  what  she 
wanted  now — she  wanted  to  be  loved,  to  feel  her  lover's 
arms  round  her.  .  .  .  She  felt  the  rush  as  of  meeting 
through  her  whole  being,  the  beating  of  her  heart.  .  .  . 
She  had  seen  Dick  and  understood  how  blessed  Linda 
had  been,  even  though  she  had  suffered  the  torture  of 
the  rack  afterwards, — it  was  worth  it — worth  it.  ... 

Some  of  the  windows  were  darkened — the  people 
behind  them  wanted  to  imagine  in  a  dream  they  con- 
jured for  themselves  that  all  would  be  well;  now  and 
then  she  heard  a  street  door  open  and  softly  close,  and 
then  footsteps  that  went  away  into  the  distance;  .  .  . 
once,  as  two  figures  passed,  she  heard  a  voice  say,  "No, 
in  Downing  Street  or  outside  the  Foreign  Office.  They 
will  proclaim  it  there.  Or,  how  about  Buckingham 
Palace?" 

It  was  nearly  time.  .  .  .  Then  in  the  distance  a  clock 
struck.  They  knew!  the  people  a  mile  off  knew!  That 
dark  grey-blue  sky  above  knew.  They  knew  in  all  the 
wide  places  where  the  people  had  been  waiting.  Dick 
knew,  she  felt  that  he  did — that  he  had  waited;  she 
could  see  him,  the  tilt  of  his  head,  the  eager  remember- 
ing look  in  his  eyes — eyes  that  had  for  a  moment  seemed 
to  see  so  far  away  into  the  great  distances  this  afternoon 
when  he  spoke  about  ideals  and  a  temple  on  a  hill.  .  .  . 

Everything  was  unnaturally  quiet,  then — hark!  .  .  . 
there  was  a  cheer  in  the  distance,  it  died  away  as  if 
slowly  strangled,  a  car  rushed  by,  people  returned,  she 
heard  their  voices,  hushed  yet  excited,  "War!  War!" 
they  said,  and  hurried  on  as  if  to  carry  the  news. 
"War,"  a  man's  voice  said,  so  clearly  that  she  heard 
him,  "but  the  honour  of  the  country  is  saved.  .  .  ." 
Steps  came  nearer  and  stopped,  she  craned  her  head 
and  looked  out,  some  one  went  down  the  area  steps.  It 
must  be  Stimson,  of  course;  he  had  been  out  to  hear. 


Miss  Fingal  289 

He  came  up  a  few  minutes  later.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  miss,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  would  like  to 
know?  It's  war  with  Germany." 

"Where  did  you  go?" 

"Down  to  the  Foreign  Office  first,  then  Parliament 
Street  and  Whitehall,  there  were  crowds  that  stood  as 
silent  as  possible,  but  they  shouted  when  they  knew — 
you  should  have  heard  them,  miss." 

"Were  they  glad?" 

"They  felt  it  had  to  be:  they  seemed  proud  of  it — 
we  all  were,  though  war  is  a  terrible  thing  of  course. 
I  saw  Mr.  Alliston " 

"Yes" — he  wondered  at  the  quick  movement  of  her 
head,  the  tone  of  her  voice.  "What  did  he  do?" 

"He  stood  very  still  in  one  place  with  his  eyes  fixed, 
and  waited — the  moment  he  knew  he  gave  out  a  cry,  it 
was  joyful  like,  then  he  turned  and  hurried  away  as  hard 
as  he  could.  Lots  of  people  sang  'God  save  the  King,' 
and  went  off  to  Buckingham  Palace  to  cheer." 

She  went  to  bed  after  that.  She  felt  that  the 
Sistine  Madonna  over  the  mantelpiece  would  watch 
her  all  night  long.  Just  as  the  clock  struck  two  a 
boy  shouted:  "Special!  War  with  Germany!" 

She  heard  him  drowsily,  and  thought  that  Dick 
would  go  to  it.  ...  At  six  in  the  morning  the  boys 
called  out  again  "War  with  Germany!"  She  wanted 
to  get  up  and  do  things  that  would  help,  for  she  was  a 
part  of  England:  every  human  being  had  become  that 
in  the  night.  "War  with  Germany."  .  .  .  And  the 
children  were  sleeping  peacefully  at  the  cottage;  and 
peace  was  in  the  garden,  in  thousands  of  gardens,  and 
flowers  were  breathing  their  sweetness  into  the  summer 
air,  and  here  and  there  among  the  still  trees  birds  were 
calling  to  each  other,  and  the  countryside  was  stirring 
itself,  dogged  and  wondering,  not  knowing  yet  that  never 
would  England  be  the  same  again.  It  was  all  over:  a 
great  chapter  had  ended:  another  was  beginning. 

The  early  post  brought  a  letter  from  Bertha.  Sturdie 
had  not  been  well  and  there  was  a  rumour  of  fever  in 
the  village:  "The  Canon  in  residence  feels  a  little 
nervous,"  she  said.  An  hour  later  Aline  was  on  her 


290  Miss  Fingal 

way  back:  anxiety  for  the  child  blotted  out  all  remem- 
brance of  yesterday,  even  of  the  war,  though  the  under- 
lying sense  of  it  remained.  It  was  afternoon  when  she 
arrived  and  Bertha  was  self-reproachful.  "It  is  all 
nonsense,"  she  said,  "he  is  perfectly  well,  and  it  was 
a  false  scare  in  the  village.  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  have 
brought  you  back." 

But  Aline  was  glad.  For  some  reason  she  would  not 
let  herself  consider  she  felt  that  it  was  better  to  have 
come  back,  she  was  safer  at  the  cottage — safer  from 
what?  .  .  .  The  children  had  been  playing  in  the 
orchard,  picking  up  windfalls  from  the  apple-trees  and 
looking  for  eggs  in  the  hen-house;  they  heard  the  car 
arrive  and  ran  to  meet  her,  calling  "Alice — Alice!" — 
the  name  they  had  given  to  her.  They  clung  to  her 
skirts;  and  she  knelt  on  the  grass,  so  that  she  might 
hold  them  closer.  Their  little  arms  went  round  her 
neck;  she  remembered  their  father's  face  and  voice 
and  knew  now  that  he  had  loved  their  mother,  that  he 
loved  her  still.  It  sanctified  everything,  and  if  he  went 
to  the  war — why,  his  going  had  not  come  yet;  there 
would  be  days  of  blessed  peace  and  knowledge  to  live 
through  at  the  cottage:  in  her  heart  there  was  no 
room  for  fear  or  tragedy. 

There  was  a  happy  tea-party  in  the  garden.  Bridget 
sat  up  to  the  table  and  fed  herself  daintily,  and  looked 
at  the  branches  above  her,  as  if  wondering  whether  there 
were  birds  up  there;  and  Sturdie  chattered  about  the 
sunflowers,  six  feet  high,  that  nodded  to  each  other, 
from  the  farther  bed,  like  stately  ladies  and  gentlemen 
in  a  quadrille:  Webb  had  told  him  that  the  hens 
would  fatten  on  their  seed  in  the  winter.  And  a  tall 
rose-tree  had  burst  into  bloom  while  she  was  away  in 
London;  she  took  it  as  a  sign,  for  had  not  her  own  life 
opened  out  too?  All  the  time  Bertha  sat  watching, 
tucking  up  wisps  of  fair  hair  that  worried  her  neck — 
she  disliked  caterpillars  and  wanted  to  make  sure  thai- 
one  was  not  stealing  round  it — or  fingering  the  cigarette- 
case  dangling  as  usual  at  her  side.  It  was  strange,  she 
thought,  to  see  Aline  there  in  Linda's  place  with  Linda's 
children:  and  yet  it  looked  oddly  natural. 


Miss  Fingal  291 

Then  a  telegram  came  from  Dick.  He  had  been  to 
Bedford  Square  and  found  that  she  had  gone.  "I  knew 
England  would  play  up,"  it  said.  "Enlisted  this  morn- 
ing, signed  for  active  service.  Writing  to  you."  A 
choke  came  to  Aline's  throat  at  those  last  three  words. 
In  the  morning  there  would  be  a  letter  from  him. 

"So  like  Dick  to  enlist!  He  ought  to  get  a  commis- 
sion; he  and  Jimmy  were  both  in  the  O.T.C.  at  Oxford. 
I  suppose  he  wanted  to  find  out  what  the  life  was  like," 
Bertha  said,  and  thoughtfully  curled  the  smoke  of  her 
cigarette  round  her  finger.  "I  wonder  what  you  will 
do,  Aline — but  you  have  the  children  of  course — that 
will  help — we  must  all  do  something.  I  did  some 
training  four  years  ago  and  shall  try  to  get  out  with 
the  Red  Cross." 

The  morning  brought  her  two  letters,  one  from 
Jimmy:  "Just  to  tell  you  that  I  am  a  Tommy.  No 
uniform  for  three  weeks.  Allowed  to  feed  and  lodge 
myself  for  the  present,  everything  a  scramble  and 
difficult." 

Bertha  laughed.  "Of  course — he  is  a  blend  too,  as 
Dick  calls  it,"  she  said. 

"A  blend?"  Aline  said  absently.  She  had  Dick's 
letter  in  her  hand. 

But  Bertha  did  not  explain.  "Father  will  be 
furious,"  she  laughed.  "He'll  go  up,  you'll  see, 
and  clamour,  and  expect  his  son  to  be  made  a  Field- 
Marshal." 


XVI. 

THE  war  was  a  month  old.  The  retreat  from  Mons  was 
over,  the  Germans  were  still  advancing  on  Paris — only 
to  be  turned  back  in  the  next  day  or  two.  In  England, 
Kitchener's  Army  was  being  raked  together,  and  London 
squares,  and  even  streets,  were  drilling-grounds.  With 
desperate  haste  thousands  of  eager  civilians,  ill-matched, 
often  shambling,  and  sometimes  physically  weak,  were 
dumped  down  and  fed  under  any  roof  or  none,  hurried 
into  uniforms  and  turned  into  soldiers  destined  to  help 
in  saving  their  country  and  amaze  the  world  by  their 
courage  and  endurance  and  fighting  qualities. 

Aline  was  back  in  Bedford  Square,  the  Gilstons  in 
Portland  Place.  It  was  impossible  to  stay  at  Waver- 
combe,  it  had  become  a  vast  camp,  a  mass  of  canvas 
and  hastily  run-up  shelters.  Briarpatch  was  lent  to 
an  important  officer.  Beechwood  was  turned  into  the 
local  Headquarters — Sir  James  was  proud  of  it,  he  felt 
that  it  brought  him  into  prominence  with  the  military 
powers  and  gave  him  the  excuse  he  desired  for  remain- 
ing in  London.  To  the  surprise  of  his  family  he  was 
not  angry  with  Jimmy  for  enlisting.  It  appealed  to 
him,  to  the  embers  of  youth  that  lingered  in  his  own 
nature.  "Thousands  of  young  fellows  who  are  gentle- 
men will  do  it — I  should  myself  at  his  age.  It  shows 
that  the  right  stuff  is  in  him;  but  I  should  like  my 
only  son  to  have  a  commission.  He  is  qualified,  and  he 
deserves  it,"  he  explained.  Jimmy  was  amused  and 
refused  to  worry.  He  was  quite  satisfied.  He  was 
allowed  to  remain  in  his  own  rooms,  since  accommo- 
dation for  a  whole  army  was  not  to  be  found  in  an 
hour — or  even  a  month;  he  hated  having  to  show  up 

292 


Miss  Fingal  293 

at  eight  in  the  morning,  he  thought  the  new  drill  in- 
fernal till  he  realised  the  elasticity  it  gave  him,  and 
he  was  bored  at  being  on  duty  most  of  the  day.  Still 
there  were  points:  his  sergeant  evidently  thought  him 
an  ass,  but  a  superior  sort  of  ass,  especially  after  Sir 
James  had  been  round,  and  he  was  free  on  Saturday 
afternoons.  He  told  his  father  that  he  preferred  being 
a  private.  "But  I  said  it  chiefly  to  annoy,"  he  re- 
marked to  Aline,  "for  though,  if  one  is  misguided  enough 
to  have  a  father  one  must  humour  him  sometimes,  I 
shan't  do  it  in  this.  I  mean  to  remain  as  I  am!"  His 
hair  was  cut,  his  walk  improved,  he  looked  smarter 
than  he  had  ever  done  in  his  life,  and  was  rather  pleased 
with  himself  in  uniform.  He  wanted  to  be  sent  out 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  he  was — to  Flanders.  He 
had  hoped  that  he  might  be  within  reach  of  Bertha, 
who  was  at  Rouen  working  at  a  small  hospital  under 
the  difficult  conditions  that  prevailed  in  the  early  days 
of  the  war,  but  one  could  not  have  it  all  one's  own 
way,  he  told  himself,  and  he  was  fortunate  to  get  out 
so  soon.  He  had  forty-eight  hours'  leave  before  he 
started,  and  went  a  long  excursion  with  Aline  and  the 
children  in  the  car  to  Epping  Forest.  He  would  have 
preferred  it  without  "the  kids,"  but  again  he  told 
himself  one  couldn't  have  it  all  one's  own  way,  and 
they  were  not  so  bad.  He  saw  Dick  Alliston,  who 
was  free  in  the  evening,  and  explained  that  in  order 
to  do  so  he  had  refused  to  dine  at  Bedford  Square 
and  friendship  could  not  go  further,  for  Mrs.  Turner 
was  an  excellent  cook — to  say  nothing  of  the  lady. 
Dick  consoled  him  in  a  manner  that  he  appreciated. 

"I  wonder  what  you  thought  of  Aline  Fingal," 
Jimmy  said,  for  he  had  heard  of  Dick's  visit.  "Now 
that  she  is  better  dressed,  has  more  to  say,  and  knows 
her  way  about  among  people,  she  has  grown  younger 
and  better  looking.  She  is  a  little  too  motherly  for  my 
taste,  since  she  took  charge  of  your  confounded  kids; 
for  she  doesn't  pay  quite  enough  attention  to  me." 

"I  like  it." 

"They  are  your  kids.  But  what  do  you  think  of 
her?" 


294  Miss  Fingal 

He  considered  for  a  moment  as  if  to  make  sure  of 
himself.  "She  is  the  only  woman,  besides  Linda,  I 
ever  felt  that  I  could  love." 

"Deuce  you  did !"  Jimmy  answered  uneasily,  "but 
you  have  only  seen  her  once — since  that  day  she  was 
with  me." 

"That's  all — but  one  knows!" 

Jimmy  was  silent  for  a  moment,  he  had  a  struggle 
with  himself  before  he  answered.  "There's  no  reason 
why  you  shouldn't  marry  her  some  day — if  she  would  have 
you.  Perhaps  she  would;  women  are  precious  fools." 

Alliston  shook  his  head.  "I  am  not  made  for  that 
sort  of  thing.  I  tried  it  once  and  failed.  I  couldn't 
settle  down  to  the  cooing  domestic  life — women  can, 
they  loiter  in  the  gardens ;  but  most  men — I'm  one  of 
them — want  the  highroad,  and  if  it's  a  rough  one 
they  are  all  the  better  for  it." 

"Women  are  coming  out  of  their  gardens." 

"Oh  yes — the  gates  are  unlatched.  They  will  lose  a 
good  deal ;  but  there  are  compensations.  Some  of  them 
won't  stand  it " 

"Some  of  'em  will — and  do — very  well." 

"And  the  effect  on  the  population  will  be  seen  in  the 
next  generation." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it's  a  stronger  one." 

"Probably — what  there  is  of  it.  The  garden  life  will 
be  over  and  only  hardy  shrubs  will  grow  outside  it." 
He  turned  to  Jimmy  with  one  of  his  wonderful  smiles. 
"I  love  the  gardens — though  I  can't  stay  in  them — one 
turns  into  them  for  rest  and  happiness." 

They  walked  together  to  the  Embankment,  then,  as  on 
the  night  he  saw  Aubrey  Wynne,  Dick  went  to  Hunger- 
ford  Bridge,  which  was  still  open,  and  stood  looking 
down  at  the  river,  and  at  the  great  searchlight  that  was 
a  new  sensation.  He  felt  unutterably  lonely.  Glad 
that  he  had  joined,  popular  among  his  comrades  though 
he  was  known  as  "a  silent  cove,"  and  a  good  soldier.  He 
had  been  spotted  almost  at  once  as  a  man  who  ought  to 
be  recommended  for  a  commission.  But  he  lived,  at 
heart,  on  a  great  waste  ground,  knowing  that  he  had  dis- 
tanced everything  the  years  had  given  and  wrung  their 


Miss  Fingal  295 

chances  dry.  The  only  one  he  could  spy  ahead,  in  his 
present  mood,  lay  with  the  war.  He  was  impatient  to 
go  out,  to  see  the  new  phase  and  what  would  come  of 
it,  to  help  in  what  might  be  the  salvation  of  humanity 
— the  clue,  the  key  of  which  he  had  dreamt.  But  first 
he  wanted  to  see  his  children — and  Aline. 

She  was  always  Aline  in  his  thoughts.  A  correspon- 
dence had  grown  up  between  them — he  did  not  know 
why,  only  that  it  had, — inquiries  about  the  children, 
when  she  was  coming  to  London,  and  so  on;  and  her 
letters  had  become  something  to  look  forward  to  every 
other  morning,  for  they  grew  to  be  as  often  as  that.  All 
the  old  eagerness  was  in  him  still;  but  she  was  a  peace- 
ful little  backwater,  a  shelter  for  his  thoughts:  and  the 
children  were  safe.  He  wished  sometimes  that  she  were 
a  cleverer  woman,  since  his  son  was  in  her  hands,  but 
she  was  good  and  sweet  and  pure,  as  that  other  one  in 
his  life  had  been,  as  he  wanted  Bridget  to  be — and  for 
the  rest,  he  could  see  to  it  later,  and  probably  in  any 
case  the  children  would  work  out  their  own  salvation — 
or  the  reverse,  as  he  had  worked  out  his. 

He  wondered  about  Cherry  Ripe  too  sometimes. 
Casually  one  day  he  heard  of  the  man  who  had  first 
brought  her  to  London  and  started  her  on  her — adven- 
turous— way.  He  was  in  the  Army  Service  Corps,  not 
thought  much  of,  but  a  good-looking  fellow.  After 
all,  Cherry  Ripe  had  not  had  a  bad  time  from  her  own 
point  of  view:  she  had  known  all  sorts  and  conditions, 
rioted  in  luxury  and  extravagance,  and  enjoyed  playing 
the  devil  with  a  score  of  young  idiots,  who  were  prob- 
ably none  the  worse  for  it  in  the  long-run,  though  they 
might  be  the  poorer;  and  she  had  money  and  would 
certainly  marry  some  day.  He  had  an  idea  that  the 
man  in  the  Army  Service  Corps  would  go  back  to  her 
in  the  end.  Poor  Cherry  Ripe,  there  had  been  excuses 
for  her.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  of  Aline  Fingal  of  whom  he  thought  most. 
Her  letters  gave  him  an  atmosphere  he  had  not  known 
since  the  old  happy  days — and  they  were  full  of  uncon- 
sciousness tenderness.  "I  must  see  the  children,"  he 
thought,  "but  I  wonder  why  the  deuce  it  is  that  I 


296  Miss  Fingal 

want  to  see  her "  and  obstinately  he  would  not  go 

near  Bedford  Square. 

Two  days  later  he  ran  against  Stockton — in  uniform. 
They  stopped  and  looked  at  each  other  embarrassed ; 
then,  as  if  on  second  thoughts,  shook  hands,  and  each 
knew  that  the  other  remembered  a  day  at  Beechwood 
and  Linda  in  a  shady  hat  walking  with  them  up  and 
down  the  terrace.  She  and  Dick  had  managed  to  escape 
to  the  wood  beyond  the  lawn,  and  an  hour  later,  flushed 
and  happy,  announced  that  they  were  engaged.  Stockton 
went  back  to  London  that  evening.  They  had  met 
since,  but  a  nod  or  a  curt  word  or  two  had  been  all  that 
passed  between  them.  Now  war  had  broken  down  the 
fences,  they  had  liked  each  other  in  bygone  years,  and 
after  a  moment's  silence  they  stood  together  on  the 
same  plane  once  more. 

"How  do  you  manage  to  be  swaggering  about  in  this 
get-up  already? — not  back  from  the  front,  are  you?" 
Alliston  asked,  nodding  to  the  red  tabs. 

"I  am  in  the  War  Office." 

"Mending  Kitchener's  pens?  I  am  told  he  uses 
quills." 

"He  sent  me  out  with  a  special  message  to  Head- 
quarters last  week — I  am  not  a  fighting  man,  but  he  has 
uses  for  me " 

"It's  a  way  they  have  in  the  army — well,  come  and 
lunch.  I  suppose  you'll  survive  being  seen  with  a 
Tommy  ?" 

"Why  didn't  you  apply  for  a  commission?"  Stockton 
asked  when  they  were  in  the  Carlton  grill-room.  They 
were  both  known  there,  and  the  waiter  had  tactfully  put 
them  at  a  corner  table. 

"Wanted  to  see  what  this  game  was  like.  But  it 
takes  it  out  of  you.  They  were  not  so  keen  on  Swedish 
antics  last  time  I  was  drilled." 

"Why  infantry?" 

"Better  chance  of  getting  through  with  your  share  of 
the  job  quickly,  whichever  way  it  goes,  and  I  shouldn't 
mind  getting  hurt." 

"I  understand.  It  would  be  expiation."  He  said 
it  almost  affectionately  and  with  low-toned  solemnity. 


Miss  Fingal  297 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  old  man.  I'm  out  for  nothing 
of  the  sort."  I  was  nettled  but  recovered  in  a 
moment. 

"I  wish  you  were.  I  have  often  been  anxious  about 
you." 

"I  say,  look  here,  Stockton.  I  shall  give  you  a  genial 
kicking  if  you  don't  look  out,  for  the  good  of  your  soul 
and  the  mending  of  your  manners." 

"We  are  old  friends  and  can  speak  frankly." 

"Not  on  some  subjects." 

"All  right,  dear  chap,  we  won't."  His  voice  was  very 
soft,  he  looked  sorry.  "I  wanted  to  tell  you,  I  thought 
it  would  interest  you — that  I  understood  what  you  did, 
for  I  came  to  know  her." 

"Came  to  know  who?" 

"Miss  Repton." 

"You  old  reprobate.  Cherry  Ripe  and  you!  I 
heard  of  you." 

"She  calls  herself  Miss  Repton  now.  She  has  dropped 
the  other." 

"Oh— and " 

"I  asked  her  to  marry  me.     She  refused." 

"Bad  luck!  She  would  have  leavened  you  so  advan- 
tageously." 

"She  told  you  about  it,  I  know." 

"Yes,  she  did,  but  I  didn't  want  to  give  her  away. 
I  like  you  for  speaking  of  it — you  are  nice  people  both 
of  you.  I  hope  she  told  you  that  our  meeting,  I  mean 
when  I  went  to  her  flat  a  little  while  ago,  was  an 
accident — there  was  no  harm  in  it!" 

"She  told  me  everything:  she  has  a  singularly  frank 
nature.  You  had  a  great  effect  on  her  that  day,  Alliston 
— it  will  count  to  you.  She  sold  everything  in  the  flat 
directly  war  was  declared  and  gave  up  her  work." 

"All  in  a  moment.  Poor  Cherry  Ripe!  It's  so  like 
her.  She  was  always  at  the  mercy  of  her  impulses, 
and  the  devil  generally  suggested  them.  Where  is  she 
now?" 

"Yesterday  she  started  for  France." 

"France!     What  is  she  going  to  do  there?" 

"Canteen  work.     She  will  sing  it  to  the  men." 


298  Miss  Fingal 

"Poor  chaps!  She'll  play  the  devil  among  them. 
But  it'll  amuse  them  for  a  bit." 

"I  dare  say.  And  at  the  present  rate  there'll  be  few 
of  them  left  to  remember.  The  casualty  list  was  ter- 
rible this  morning." 

"So  it  won't  matter:  and  she'll  be  useful,  she  has 
capacities  and  womanly  ways.  It's  queer  you  should 
tell  me  all  this,  Teddy."  Alliston  went  back  to  the  old 
name  without  thinking. 

Stockton  acknowledged  it  by  a  graceful  smile.  "She 
gave  me  a  message  in  case  I  came  across  you,"  he  said. 
"Cellom  told  me  that  he  met  you  in  the  Haymarket 
yesterday  coming  from  St.  James's  Park,  so  I  tried  to 
run  against  you  to-day  at  the  same  time." 

"She  sent  me  a  message?" 

"I  was  to  tell  you  about  her,  to  give  you  her  love 
and  say  that  she  hadn't  meant  to  be  a  bad  lot,  she 
couldn't  help  it;  and  she  believed  the  children  would 
have  been  her  salvation;  that  was  why — I  am  trying  to 
repeat  her  exact  words." 

"I  see.     How  did  she  manage  to  go  to  France?" 

"Violet  Horton  has  started  a  canteen  and  asked  her 
to  go.  It's  at  Dieppe.  The  Duchess  is  going  to  it 
directly." 

"Of  course  she  is,"  Dick  laughed,  "and  they  will  all 
be  very  kind  and  sympathetic  and  thoroughly  enjoy 
themselves.  It  is  a  queer  world,  but  perhaps  the  war 
will  be  good  for  it  in  the  end." 

"Something  was  necessary  to  straighten  out  things — 
the  madness  of  London,  the  indecencies  of  the  women's 
dress,  the  carnival  of  pleasure " 

"And  the  rest."  Dick  knew  all  this  by  heart.  "Well, 
glad  to  have  seen  you  again.  The  war  has  given  as  well 
as  taken — sounds  like  one  of  your  remarks,  doesn't  it?" 

Stockton  smiled  again:  somehow  his  smile  always 
seemed  to  have  the  remembrance  of  a  text  in  it.  "Get 
your  commission,"  he  said:  "you  will  be  more  useful 
to  the  men  as  an  officer  than — than  as  you  are." 

"Perhaps  they  won't  want  to  give  me  one." 

"I  shall  tell  Kitchener  about  you." 

"While  you  are  mending  his  pens — I'm  beastly  rude! 


Miss  Fingal  299 

Don't  worry,  old  man,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should  like 
a  commission,  so  I'd  better  stick  it." 

But  he  thought  as  he  walked  away  that  he  felt  out 
of  it  sometimes  among  the  men  he  was  with,  though 
most  of  them  were  good  chaps,  splendid  stuff;  but  he 
couldn't  stand  Virginian  cigarettes  or  sentimental  stories 
at  picture  palaces ;  and  he  hankered  after  regular  baths 
— till  he  got  to  the  trenches  anyway.  "I  expect  one 
is  proud  of  one's  dirt  then,  but  the  old  environment 
sticks  to  one  like  a  spider's  web  to  a  fly,  even  when  it 
has  broken  away." 


XVII. 

ALLISTON  had  been  six  weeks  in  camp  at  Reading  when 
he  heard  that  he  was  going  out  with  the  next  draft. 
He  had  his  commission,  though  he  had  not  sought  it, 
and  only  accepted  it  after  some  hesitation.  Perhaps 
Lord  Stockton's  remark,  that  he  could  be  of  more  use 
as  an  officer  than  as  a  Tommy,  decided  him.  It  was 
certain  that  he  made  an  excellent  soldier:  he  had  de- 
lighted in  his  early  training  and  proved  himself  then — 
all  that  he  was  later.  When  something  was  said  to 
him  to  that  effect  by  his  Colonel  who,  curiously,  proved 
to  be  a  cousin  he  had  hardly  known  before,  he  answered 
with  a  careless  laugh:  "No  credit  to  me.  I  like  it  and 
one  is  seldom  a  crass  failure  at  anything  if  one  cares 
enough — work  needs  a  heart,  and  gains  or  suffers  by 
it  as  much  as  a  woman." 

He  was  being  sent  out  very  soon  after  joining;  but, 
as  in  Jimmy's  case,  some  influence  had  been  used — 
he  knew  where  to  go  for  it,  and  his  eagerness  and 
efficiency  did  the  rest.  Like  Jimmy,  too,  he  had  only 
forty-eight  hours'  draft  leave — barely  that,  but  he  was 
lucky  to  have  it,  some  did  not  get  any  in  those  rushing 
days.  He  telegraphed  to  Aline  asking  if  he  might  see 
her  and  the  children  on  his  last  afternoon,  and  set  about 
putting  his  affairs  in  order  in  case  the  Hun  scored  off 
him.  The  affairs  were  more  important  regarding  the 
future  than  he  had  ever  hinted,  or  thought  much  about 
in  the  present;  for  the  changes  and  chances  of  the  last 
year  made  it  probable  that  if  he  lived,  there  would  be 
(or  if  he  didn't  there  would  be  ultimately  for  his  son) 
advantages  that  most  men  value. 

Jimmy  was  wounded  already,  badly,  though  he  was 

300 


Miss  Fingal  301 

safe.  Modern  warfare  was  then  a  new  game,  and  the 
proportion  of  casualties  was  much  greater.  A  bit  of 
shell  had  torn  his  left  arm,  reached  his  lung,  and  landed 
him  in  a  Base  hospital  for  some  time  before  he  could 
be  moved  to  England.  Besides  this,  his  head  had  been 
"scratched,"  as  he  put  it,  and  he  was  a  pathetic  but 
gratifying  sight  to  Sir  James,  who  managed  (of  course 
he  did)  to  hurry  over  to  France  full  of  concern  and 
fatherly  pride.  "My  dear  chap,"  he  said,  "y°u  have 
served  your  King  and  country.  Be  satisfied :  I  am 
proud  of  you.  But  how  did  you  do  it?" 

"The  Hun  attacked  me  in  the  flank  and  made  a  dent, 
but  he  didn't  reach  his  objective.  .  .  .  When  I  am  chucked 
over  the  water  see  they  dump  me  in  a  London  hospital." 

Sir  James  promised  and  smiled,  delighted  with  what 
he  called  the  military  way  of  putting  things.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  Jimmy  wanted  to  be  near  Miss 
Fingal,  and  that  with  a  head  bandage  as  well  as  a 
bound-up  arm  she  would  feel  he  was  a  hero — and  be 
touched. 

Alliston  told  Aline  he  would  go  to  Bedford  Square  at 
six,  but  it  was  a  quarter  past  when  he  ran  upstairs  in 
front  of  Stimson  and  strode  in.  She  made  a  little  sound 
as  she  went  forward,  it  betrayed  that  she  had  been 
waiting  and  watching. 

"I  have  been  kept,"  he  said  breathlessly  and  took 
her  hands.  The  letters  had  broken  down  many  barriers. 
"Things  crowded  up,  you  know " 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  she  answered. 

"I  have  longed  very  often  to  come — but  I  couldn't." 
He  looked  round  as  if  he  were  making  a  note  of  every- 
thing the  room  held.  "I  shall  think  of  you — you  and 
those  two — "  he  said  and  sat  down  by  her,  "here  and  at 
the  cottage.  I  am  glad  the  cottage  is  occupied — doing 
its  bit." 

"I  wish  I  could  do  mine.  Bertha  is,  all  the  women 
are,  or  planning " 

"So  are  you — there  are  bits  indoors  as  well  as  out. 
The  children  are  a  big  chunk.  No  one  will  be  left  out 
who  wants  to  be  raked  in." 


302  Miss  Fingal 

"I  know."  She  looked  at  him  and  tried  to  feel 
heroic  and  failed;  she  was  only  conscious  of  two  things 
— the  joy  of  seeing  him,  the  dread  of  his  going.  "Shall 
I  get  any  letters?"  she  asked. 

"I  expect  so — sometimes — you'll  get  a  field-card  any- 
how. And  I  told  them  to  send  to  you  if — if  I'm  hit,  or 
anything  goes  wrong."  He  saw  the  little  movement 
that  went  through  her  and  put  his  hand  on  hers  for 
a  minute. 

"I  hate  to  think  you  are  going,"  she  said  simply, 
"but  I  should  hate  it  more  if  you  didn't  want  to  go." 

"Of  course  you  would." 

"Men  do  such  strange  things,  such  dreadful  things — 
for  women  didn't  make  this  war,"  she  added  with  a 
pathetic  smile. 

"Probably  they  had  a  hand  in  it  somewhere:  they 
don't  always  put  in  an  appearance  but  they  are  seldom 
left  out." 

He  rose,  but  stood  near  her.  "After  all,  the  war 
may  set  the  world  right  in  the  end.  The  fire  of  the 
guns  may  be  the  cleansing  fire:  that's  the  pious  thing 
they  are  saying,  and  it  may  be  true."  He  was  looking 
down  at  her  face.  His  eyes  were  full  of  light  and 
tenderness.  She  answered  back  in  her  heart  though 
she  did  not  speak  a  word.  "We  are  fighting  for  the 
right  this  time,"  he  went  on,  "an  ideal  has  pointed  the 
way,  and  if  one  journeys  on  towards  the  east,  no 
matter  how  dark  or  terrible  the  night,  one  meets  the 
dawn " 

She  looked  back  at  him  gratefully. 

"I  am  going  out  to  help,  if  I  can;  as  every  blessed 
Tommy  with  a  brave  heart  and  lifted  arm  is  doing. 
.  .  .  If  the  people  at  home  play  up  it  will  be  all  right: 
any  who  don't — ought  to  be  marooned  on  an  island  that 
isn't  ours.  But  they  will,  you'll  see — it's  their  chance — 
the  Wonderful  Chance  that  comes  once  in  a  lifetime  in 
some  form  to  every  one  of  us — and  the  individual  and 
the  country  are  often  a  synabol  of  each  other." 

"Mr.  Bendish  said  this  morning  there  were  going  to 
be  strikes." 

"Oh  no — "  it  seemed  to  hurt  him. 


Miss  Fingal  303 

"The  strikers  may  be  in  the  right?" 

"Can't  be.  They  ought  to  be  taken  to  the  lamp- 
posts  " 

"But  if  the  employers  are  in  the  wrong?"  she  per- 
sisted. 

"Two  wrongs  won't  make  a  right.  Nothing  will 
excuse  the  strikers.  In  war  time  the  country  comes 
first.  They  will  see  that  and  help;  it's  their  wonderful 
chance — the  country's  wonderful  chance!  And  every 
man  in  the  Army  thinks  it  unconsciously — or  the  enemy 
would  win — "  he  stopped  and  asked:  "Now,  may  I  see 
them?" 

They  went  up  together  side  by  side,  slowly;  Dick  had 
her  hand  till  they  reached  the  landing — then  she  pointed 
to  the  door  and  went  down. 

He  came  back  twenty  minutes  later,  Sturdie  beside 
him  and  Bridget  in  his  arms.  His  face  was  beaming. 
He  put  Bridget  on  her  lap  and  played  with  Sturdie, 
teaching  him  how  to  salute.  "I  have  sent  them  some 
things,"  he  said,  "I  ought  to  have  brought  them. 
What  a  duffer  I  am.  Sturdie,  you  have  a  rocking-horse 
and  a  Teddy  bear  coming;  and  Bridget — something 
else.  They  have  heaps,  I  know,"  he  went  on,  turning 
to  her,  "but  I  wanted  to  give  them  some — you  know?" 
He  felt  as  if  she  knew  everything. 

Then  Janet  entered  saying  it  was  time  for  bed,  it  was 
nearly  seven.  He  let  them  go  in  a  lingering  fashion; 
but  he  had  a  happy  'thought.  "Look  here,"  he  said 
to  Janet,  "get  them  tucked  up  quickly  and  I'll  come 
and  have  a  last  look  at  them.  I  should  like  to  see  how 
they  look  with  their  little  heads  on  pillows." 

Bridget  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 
His  eyes  followed  them  up  the  stairs  till  the  door  was 
closed,  then  he  turned  to  Aline. 

"Oh,   you  must   have   loved  her!"   she   exclaimed. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  he  answered.  "I  loved  her  only 
in  the  world." 

She  put  out  her  hands  appealingly  as  they  sat  down 
again  and  asked:  "But  wasn't  love  enough  to  hold  you 
to  her?" 

"She  was  a  flower  in  a  garden:   I  always   feel  that 


304  Miss  Fingal 

about  her.  But  I  was  a  wayfarer,  tramping — curious 
and  eager  along  the  world's  highway.  She  was  content 
to  stay  in  her  shelter — and  I  went  on  alone ;  but  always 
with  one  woman  in  my  heart,  locked  in  it — hidden " 

"And  you  couldn't  go  back  to  her?" 

"I  couldn't.  There  are  powers  that  sometimes  get 
the  better  of  one ' 

"But    in    the    beginning,    before    they    got    hold    of 


you 


He  shook  his  head.  "I  wasn't  made  to  stay  in  the 
shelter,  to  live  my  life  in  it,  any  more  than  the  lover 
of  Christ  and  all  the  saints  is  made  to  spend  his  week- 
days in  church.  He  goes  there  on  Sundays,  but  outside 
it  and  at  other  times  there  are  things  he  wants  to  do ;  and 
an  insatiable  hunger,  a  madness  was  on  me — I  know  all 
that  it  meant  to  Linda."  He  got  up  and  walked  about 
again,  struggling  to  speak  calmly.  "I  found  her  and 
gathered  her  and  left  her  to  die;  remembering  her,  lov- 
ing her,  haunted  by  her,  but  finding  it  impossible  to  go 
back,  to  stay  beside  her,  content  with  all  that  had  con- 
tented her.  I  felt  as  if  irresistibly  I  was  projected  into 
space — urged  onwards,  taking  the  good  and  the  evil  just 
as  it  happened  on  the  way." 

"She  would  have  gone  with  you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  then.  She  was  a  beautiful 
thing  and  belonged  to  Nature,  to  all  that  was  highest. 
Of  highest  love,  passion  should  be  born,  the  gods  come 
of  it  then — if  there  are  gods,"  he  added  cynically.  "But 
passion  doesn't  always  go  with  the  sort  of  love  I  gave 
her;  it  is  seldom  so  strong  that  it  masters  other  impulses 
— and  the  material  side,  that  has  no  idealism,  no  senti- 
ment even,  riots  through  one's  veins  sometimes,  carries 
one  away,  and  the  devil  wins." 

"But  you  loved  her  through  everything?"  she  asked 
again,  as  if  at  some  desperate  bidding. 

"Yes;  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "Through  a  mad  orgy, 
or  wild  adventure,  in  which  one  makes  no  sign  of  it, 
love  for  a  holy  thing  may  stay,  and  run  through  one's 
whole  life.  It's  like  the  still  river  in  a  landscape  that 
remains  through  all  the  changes  near  it — the  ground 
on  either  side  may  be  ruined,  the  builder  set  up  hideous 


Miss  Fingal  305 

erections  which  stand  and  disfigure  it,  or  fall  and  en- 
cumber the  meadows  and  woods  on  either  side,  but  the 
river  remains — hidden  perhaps — but  it  is  there — the 
storms  sweep  over  it,  but  they  never  sweep  it  away — 
He  broke  off.  "This  is  my  minor  poet  language,"  he 
said  with  a  harsh  laugh,  "I  always  apologise  for  it — 
but  I  expect  the  minor  poet  feels  his  stuff,  poor  chap, 
and  I  felt  more  about  Linda,  thought  of  her,  loved  her 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  and  she  knew  it." 
He  stopped  again.  "In  some  way,  for  which  I  can't 
account,  I  think  she  knows  it  still." 

She  put  out  her  hands  again  and  drew  them  quickly 
back.  The  clock  struck  seven. 

It  reminded  him.  "Let  us  go  and  see  the  children." 
She  loved  his  tone  of  authority. 

"They  belong  to  us  both  now,"  he  said  when  they 
had  come  down  again.  "I  have  given  them  to  you — 
and  no  one  can  take  them  away." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  moment  by  the 
fireplace.  Then  suddenly  he  remembered  and  exclaimed: 
"It's  time  I  went — I  say! — it's  getting  late,  we  start  in 
three  hours'  time — you  will  hear — "  They  were  silent 
for  a  moment.  Then — it  seemed  natural — he  took  her 
in  his  arms.  "Good-bye,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  love 
you,  you  know  I  do — first  woman  and  last  woman  to  me 
—I  don't  know  why  I  say  that — "  she  looked  up  at 
him  for  into  her  heart  it  carried  happiness,  "as  it  was 
in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be.  ...  You 
know  I  love  you?" 

"Yes,  yes — I  know  it — feel  it — and  it's  such  joy  to 
be  here,"  she  answered,  "to  be  rested  at  last  and  com- 
forted  " 

"Comforted?"     The  word  seemed  out  of  place. 

"Yes — comforted — it  is  like  coming  out  of  the  clouds 
and  mist — or  rising  from  deep  waters  into  the  light — " 
she  seemed  to  be  speaking  to  herself — "and  oh  the  joy 
of  being  loved — the  joy  of  it — of  knowing  it." 

"Aline !"  he  held  her  back  and  looked  at  her — at  her 
face  that  had  become  beautiful  to  him,  and  into  her 
eyes — at  the  light  that  shone  in  them.  He  was  startled. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  and  smiled  at  him. 


306  Miss  Fingal 

"What  does  it  mean?"  He  put  his  arms  round 
her  again;  and  then  softly,  with  infinite  tenderness: 
"Loved !  You  are  loved.  But  what  is  your  power  over 
me?  Where  does  it  come  from?  I  felt  it  even  that  first 
time  when  you  turned  your  head  away  and  I  fled — be- 
cause I  was  afraid." 

But  she  only  gave  a  long  sigh  of  happiness.  "I  am  so 
glad  to  be  here — "  she  said.  .  .  .  He  held  her  closer  still. 


XVIII. 

THE  summons  came  just  a  fortnight  later.  She  had 
been  expecting  it,  restless  and  uneasy,  with  a  sense  of 
getting  ready  for  a  journey — of  wondering  about  the  chil- 
dren— of  gratitude  that  they  were  safe.  ...  In  another 
mood  she  found  herself  making  promises  into  the  space 
about  her  of  all  that  she  would  do  with  them — that 
they  should  be  brought  up  as  he  had  said,  to  be  lovers 
of  the  beautiful  world,  dreamers  and  idealists,  and  pure 
of  heart  and  soul,  if  she  could  make  them  so.  ...  A 
tender  desperation  concerning  them  grew  upon  her: 
she  listened  to  the  sound  of  their  feet  going  upstairs 
when  they  came  in  from  their  walk — to  the  patter  of 
them  overhead  as  she  lay  awake  in  the  morning — to 
the  sound  of  their  voices — it  seemed  like  part  of  a 
farewell. 

The  telegram  arrived  late  at  night.  Dangerously 
•wounded,  would  she  come?  She  went  at  once  to  Head- 
quarters, and  was  given  the  permit — "For  forty-eight 
hours  or  as  much  longer  as  the  doctors  deem  advisable" 
— the  period  reminded  her  of  his  draft  leave — but  there 
was  no  train  till  seven  the  next  morning  from  Charing 
Cross. 

She  spent  a  long  night  wandering  over  the  house, 
stealing  up  to  the  nursery  to  look  at  the  little  sleeping 
faces — or  into  the  drawing-room,  going  over  the  time 
when  she  had  waited  for  him,  and  all  that  he  had  said. 
She  stood  for  a  minute  before  the  place  where  the  tall 
vases  had  been  and  thought  of  the  sound  he  had  put 
into  the  word  Tuscany:  it  had  conjured  up  a  vision  of 
days  and  places  that  he  and  Linda  had  seen  together — 

307 


308  Miss  Fingal 

in  the  sunshine.  .  .  .  She  thought,  and  smiled  while  she 
thought  of  them.  .  .  . 

In  the  dawn  she  started. 

There  were  other  women  on  the  platform,  sad  and 
anxious-looking,  bound  on  the  same  sort  of  errand. 
The  messengers  of  the  Red  Cross  met  them  and  every- 
thing that  was  kind  and  helpful  was  done.  All  the  time 
she  felt  as  if  she  had  no  business  there ;  this  mood  had 
taken  hold  of  her  on  the  way  to  the  station:  the  wind 
that  swept  icily  in  upon  her  seemed  to  bring  it,  and  to 
hurry  her  far  ahead  of  all  these  sorrowing  forms  .  .  . 
and  yet  she  stayed,  an  alien,  utterly  alone. 

She  huddled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  railway  carriage  and 
shivered.  Outside  the  light  stole  slowly  over  the  morn- 
ing fields.  She  drew  her  fur  coat  closer  round  her  and 
closed  her  eyes;  she  was  not  very  unhappy,  and  no 
tears  came  to  her — passionate  desolate  tears  of  the  sort 
she  had  shed  the  night  he  went,  even  though  she  had 
been  comforted  by  the  wonderful  knowledge  that  he 
loved  her.  He  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  her  now,  as  he 
had  then  or  in  the  days  after  he  had  started.  He  had  sent 
her  a  tender  last-word  telegram  before  crossing  and  she 
had  remembered  his  kisses,  his  arms  about  her,  the  re- 
luctant leaving-go  of  them.  She  went  over  it  all  again  in 
the  train,  but  not  with  the  blessed  thankfulness  of  every 
day  since,  of  even  yesterday:  to  her  now  it  seemed 
like  a  dream  from  which  she  was  waking  .  .  .  and  she 
thought  of  Linda's  face,  not  sad  and  ill  as  she  had  seen 
it,  but  grave  and  happy — and  satisfied. 

The  other  women  in  the  carriage  looked  at  her  as  if 
they  were  going  to  speak,  to  ask  her  questions,  but  she 
closed  her  eyes  again,  and  sleep  overtook  her:  it  seemed 
to  claim  her,  as  if  the  exhaustion  that  comes  of  parting 
had  overtaken  her.  .  .  .  She  awoke  and  looked  outwards. 
There  were  patches  of  wintry  sunshine  on  the  landscape, 
and  the  bare  trees  set  her  thinking  of  Battersea.  She 
went  back  there  in  her  thoughts,  and  over  the  days  and 
the  years  that  had  been  so  curiously  alike,  they  could 
not  be  disentangled:  she  had  seldom  remembered  them 
of  late. 

At  Folkestone  the  meaning  of  the  many  passes  given 


Miss  Fingal  309 

her  was  explained:  and  again  it  seemed  like  part  of  a 
proceeding  to  which  she  did  not  belong,  and  she  avoided 
looking  at  the  other  women.  She  shrank  back  when  she 
saw  the  boat,  and  went  on  board  it  feeling  as  if  she  had 
no  right  and  would  be  prevented.  It  was  almost  a  relief 
when  she  heard  her  name  called  by  an  official  with  a 
paper  in  his  hand. 

"Yes,"  she  stood  forward.  He  spoke  in  a  gentle 
sympathetic  voice  while  he  told  her  that  instructions 
had  just  come  to  say  that  she  need  not  go  on — it  was 
too  late. 

Too  late  .  .  .  yes,  she  had  known. 

She  made  no  sign  for  a  minute,  then  turned  towards 
the  gangway. 

"I  had  better  go  back,"  she  said.  He  had  waited  for 
this  and  followed  her  off  the  boat. 

"There  is  a  train  in  an  hour's  time,"  he  told  her,  and 
saw  that  tea  was  brought  her,  and  watched  by  her, 
thinking  the  news  had  stunned  her,  for  they  were  very 
kind  to  those  who  went — and  often  went  in  vain.  .  .  . 
She  sat  through  the  long  hour  looking  out  towards  the 
sea,  thinking  that  he  had  been  on  the  other  side  when 
they  sent  the  telegram  yesterday,  in  a  Field  Hospital, 
perhaps — she  didn't  know — nothing  more  had  been  said. 
.  .  .  When  the  Red  Cross  official  came  to  take  her  to 
the  train,  seeing  that  she  had  somewhat  recovered,  he 
told  her  the  battalion  had  distinguished  itself  and 
that  "Alliston  was  splendid."  She  looked  up  at  the 
word.  Linda  had  known.  .  .  .  For  all  things  are  in  the 
great  sea  of  Time,  and  now  one  wave  and  now  another, 
as  it  touches  the  shores,  gives  up  its  burden,  for  good  or 
ill,  or  whispers  its  secret,  and  goes  back  to  come  again 
— who  shall  know  when  or  how?  .  .  .  And  he  and 
Linda  had  given  her  their  children — their  cottage  was 
hers — and  they  had  gone — it  had  all  been  set  right — 
they  had  gone  on  together — she  smiled  and  thought 
how  beautiful  Linda  was,  and  loved  her.  "Dearest,"  she 
said  in  her  thoughts,  "how  wonderful  you  were  to  me. 
I  shall  never  stand  behind  the  barriers  again:  you  took 
me  a  little  way  on  with  you  and  let  me  see  and  hear. 
You  gave  me  life — you  have  made  everything  different." 


310  Miss  Fingal 

All  the  way  back  she  thought  of  her,  and  then  again 
of  Battersea.  She  had  been  so  confused  that  day  she 
went  there  with  Jimmy,  like  a  stranger;  and  not  even 
able  to  remember  the  name  of  the  young  couple  who 
had  the  flat.  She  remembered  it  now,  it  was  Foale,  of 
course — Vi  and  Bert  they  had  called  each  other.  She 
went  through  the  rooms  and  imagined  the  changes  they 
had  made,  and  wondered  if  the  flowers  they  had  put  on 
the  balcony  were  dead  or  brought  in  and  sheltered  for 
the  summer  to  come.  How  strange  it  was  never  to 
have  entered  the  Park;  but  the  gates  of  the  world — 
though  she  had  looked  through  them  as  she  had  looked 
through  the  Italian  gates  at  Beechwood — had  been 
closed  on  her  then :  now  they  were  open.  Some  day  she 
would  go  to  Battersea  and  take  the  children.  No — she 
never  would :  it  should  remain  for  ever  a  mystery  to  her. 
But  it  was  wonderful  how  well  she  could  see  it  as  she  sat 
there  in  the  train — across  the  way — the  distances — the 
people  coming  and  going.  She  thought  of  the  band 
hidden  behind  the  trees,  and  the  boats  on  the  unseen 
lake.  They  were  not  there  now,  but  in  the  spring  they 
would  be  there  again :  she  never  used  to  think  about  the 
spring,  but  she  loved  it  now,  longed  for  it.  Her  eyes 
were  wide  open  to  the  beauty  of  the  world. 

She  got  back  to  Bedford  Square  in  the  afternoon. 
Stimson  let  her  in:  she  smiled  at  him,  so  that  he  did 
not  understand  why  she  had  returned  so  soon.  Mr. 
Gilston  was  there,  he  told  her.  He  was  in  a  London 
hospital  now,  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  allowed 
out  and  he  had  come  to  see  her;  but  he  looked  tired, 
Stimson  added,  so  he  had  persuaded  him  to  come  in  and 
rest — he  had  told  him  about  the  telegram  from  France. 

She  went  to  him  in  the  morning-room.  He  was  in 
blue ;  one  eye  was  covered ;  and  his  arm  was  in  a 
splint  and  sling. 

"How  good  of  you  to  come,"  she  said.  "Are  you 
getting  better?" 

She  seemed  a  little  confused  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  remember  how  she  addressed  him.  There  flashed 
through  him  a  remembrance  of  the  night  he  had  met 
her  first  at  the  Bendish  dinner-party. 


Miss  Fingal  311 

"I  expect  Dick  was  right,  she  is  a  blend,"  he  thought. 
"It  is  very  curious." 

She  sat  down  and  seemed  reluctant  to  speak,  but  he 
knew;  he  had  known  the  moment  she  entered.  "He 
has  gone,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Poor  chap!"  he  nearly  broke  down. 

"They  have  gone  on  together."  For  a  moment  her 
face  lighted  up.  "I  think  it  was  this  morning — "  she 
remembered  the  shivering  train  journey  and  her  loneli- 
ness ;  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  wandering  between 
thought  and  reality,  and  the  dividing  line  was  hidden 
from  her. 

"He'll  be  so  eager,  he'll  scour  the  universe  and  know 
the  inside  of  every  star  before  we  have  started,"  Jimmy 
tried  to  make  his  voice  philosophical. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  to  speed  them  on  their  way. 
They  must  be  so  happy — I  can  see  them" — her  eyes 
were  the  eyes  of  a  visionary. 

He  stared  at  her  blankly.  Poor  dear,  he  thought,  she 
was  overwrought  and  full  of  fancies.  The  best  way  was 
to  humour  her.  "I  dare  say,"  he  said. 

"We  ought  to  be  glad  for  them,"  the  momentary 
exaltation  vanished;  she  looked  very  tired. 

"The  worst  of  it  is  we  are  so  beastly  human,  it  some- 
times handicaps  our  finest  notions,"  he  answered  and 
they  were  silent  for  a  minute.  "I  think  I  should  like 
to  see  the  poor  little  kids  if  you  will  let  me — unless 
I  am  too  much  of  a  scarecrow  in  these?" — he  meant 
his  bandages. 

"Oh  no,  and  they  would  like  you  to  see  them."  They 
went  up,  just  as  she  and  Dick  had  gone — those  journeys 
up  the  wide  shallow  stairs  were  like  milestones  in  her 
life.  They  stopped  a  little  way  off.  Janet  was  singing. 
"Oh,  what  is  it — I  know  it  quite  well,"  she  asked  him. 

"It's  a  Scotch  song  of  some  sort."  Jimmy  never 
knew  one  tune  from  another. 

"Of  course — I  have  heard  her  sing  it  before,"  she 
answered  confusedly,  "but  I  can't  think  when " 

She  opened  the  nursery  door.  "My  darlings,"  she 
said. 

The  children  ran  towards  her  with  little  shouts  of  joy 


312  Miss  Fingal 

crying  "Alice — Alice!"  She  knelt  and  closed  her  arms 
tightly  round  them.  "You  are  mine — they  gave  you  to 
me — you  are  mine,"  she  whispered. 

"They  will  love  you  so,"  she  heard  Janet  say.  "That's 
what  she  said  at  the  last."  Was  it  the  message? 

Jimmy,  standing  by,  gave  a  little  sympathetic  grunt. 
She  looked  up  at  him:  in  her  heart  there  was  content. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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